The Red Shadow
by Eliza B. Welch
Summary: Robert Schuler: "Look for the light behind every shadow." [status: Incomplete with 16 Chapters]
1. English Rain

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters or material, they are all copywritted by J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers and Scholastic and Bloomsbury and whoever JK's sold rights to. I can't keep track anymore. So please don't sue me, this is just for fun and is making no profit. All characters not made by J.K. Rowling are mine, so please don't use them without my permission, but if you'd like to use any of my characters, just e-mail me. But remember that I OWN NOTHING (of real importance)!

Note to readers: Original character story. Takes place during Harry's fifth year (after "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" and taking the place of "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix"). The story has been recently updated due to the release of Book V to suit some of the "facts" (spells and the like).

Harry Potter and the Red Shadow 

Chapter 1: English Rain

It started with rain.

To be precise, rain that fell on a small town, just on the northwest outskirts of Newcastle, England, falling from dark and nebulous clouds and from behind which peeked out an inky black sky. Rain that fell on the graveyard by the old church, on the sea of lights from the town below that could be seen through the fog and falling crystal-like droplets. The rain shrouded the little village like a veil, concealing the scene in the graveyard from the rest of the world. Rain that fell on a circle of cloaked and masked figures among the quiet graves and dripping yew trees; rain that fell on a figure shorter than the rest, a French girl of fifteen.

And it just so happened that she didn't like rain. It's cold, wet, and relentless. There were thousands, maybe even millions of different kinds of rain, and in some form or another, it always seemed to be there, a drizzling mist that clings to your skin, or knives of water that slice down upon you by unseen hands. There was far too much rain in England for her taste, since there was hardly this much rain in France or in her beloved Beauxbatons. But she was away from France, from Beauxbatons, from her mother, and everything else that she loved. She was with her father, in England, in the rain.

She had been in England for just over a month, but she looked as though she had been lost in the sempiternal rain for much longer. The color had been drained from her face until her skin was as white as alabaster. The vivid chroma had been washed from her hair with never-ceasing rain until it was a pale blonde that lay wet and frayed on her shoulders beneath the drenched hood of her cloak. But the red streaks in the hair that framed her face remained bright as blood freshly spilled. And her eyes were still the same endless shade of dark cobalt blue that was like staring down into the cold still darkness at the bottom of the sea, never touched or stirred by the warmth of light.

The girl pulled her cloak tightly around herself, the heavy wool fabric soaked and weighed down with water. Even though it was August, it was terribly cold, and she shivered in the freezing wind.

_Will it rain this at Hogwarts?_ she thought, but the trail of thought got no farther – derailed, crashed, burning, several victims.

"Rouge!"

The girl snapped to attention at the call of her name and forced down a shudder at the high-pitched tone of her father's voice, a voice colder than the rain.

"Yes, Papa?" she answered.

"Would you _kindly_ pay attention, Rouge?"

"Yes, Papa."

As the tall, cloaked figure turned his attention away from Rouge, she shuddered. If there was anything she hated more than the rain, more than England, even more than being taken from her mother, it was her father and his horrible voice. She heard his voice in her nightmares. She swore she could even remember hearing it as a child.

It hadn't been raining then, but the night was still dark, cold, and quiet. But not all was quiet in the house of a witch in France.

A woman with golden blonde hair like rays of aurora, that first light of each day captured and woven in her hair, and eyes of the clearest and brightest crystal blue was standing, blue eyes down, in the shadow of a tall man cloaked in black. If given the chance for a closer look, tears would have been visible in the woman's lucid eyes. She was small, weak, and afraid beside the man, for his quiet anger seemed to fill the entire room.

"What do you mean I have a _daughter_," he asked the woman in the all too familiar, high-pitched tone, but his voice so quiet and so filled with venom that volume was not needed to make him any more frightening.

"I apologize, your lordship. I deedn't mean for zis to 'appen—" her trembling voice made her seem even smaller, but she was spared an explanation as the man cut off her off.

"I won't take this bastard child. A girl cannot become a proper heir."

"I'm sure she'll manage when she's oldair—"

"Age means nothing. She's a worthless. She's a _girl._ I have no use for her. ...You've failed me, dear."

The woman shivered. She had so willingly run to him in search of power, for she was timid, mild, and powerless. But just to be near him gave her a sense of power, to know she belonged to the most feared man in the world. Yet without another thought he'd throw her away if she no longer suited his needs.

She summoned all of what little courage she had and, keeping her head down, she spoke quietly, "Please... just... just see 'er."

The woman's eyes flickered up to the man's face in search of a reply, but nothing came. She took his silence optimistically, and with a simple gesture she led him up the marble staircase and into a room that was filled with sweetly fragrant and beautifully colored roses. They practically covered the room; some enchanted to be unearthly in color and scent or bewitched to give a faint glow, dimly lighting the nursery. A bassinet sat in the middle of the room, draped in colorful silks where a sleeping infant lay.

The cloaked man stood silhouetted in the doorway with narrowed eyes beneath his hood, nostrils flaring. The woman approached the bassinet and smiled warmly down at her daughter. She stroked the side of her daughter's innocent, sleeping face, but a cold hand was placed on the woman's shoulder. She pulled her hand away and tore her eyes from her daughter. She stepped away, leaving room for the father to step in.

A shadow was cast over the sleeping child's face as he leaned over the bassinet, and his expression became one of disgust.

"Filthy brat," he spat with a look of revulsion. He began to turn to leave, but the baby stirred. Across the man's face a wicked smirk spread slowly as the baby awoke with a quiet yawn and he pulled out his wand, twirling it between his long fingers with an air of amusement.

The woman's crystalline eyes suddenly went wide as she saw the gentle twirl of the man's wand. She reached out to grab the baby, to hold him back, to do anything, but he simply held out a hand and stopped her, still twirling his wand with the other. She reached out hopelessly to her daughter, pleading for her infant daughter's forgiveness. She couldn't help her now.

The man dug his wand into the baby's inner forearm with a shout, "Morsmordre!" and glittering green light filled the room, casting shadows on every rose. The baby screamed. Her mother sobbed, and her father laughed that horrible high-pitched laugh. As the baby screamed, trickles of blood seemed to drip down the sides of her face, staining her hair in streaks. The baby girl's mother watched the sudden burst of pigment in her daughter's downy-like, baby hair with a mixture of shock and fear. _Let it end_, she hoped, _oh please let it end._

That spell left more of a mark than red streaks in the infant girl's hair. A mark that branded who she was and who she was meant to be. It was a mark that lasted the rest of her life.

The man pulled his wand away and the woman ran to her daughter who lay screaming and crying with pain. She held her daughter in her arms, sobbing with her. And the cloaked man left for England, leaving them crying among their roses.

Rouge shuddered and shook her head. She had seen that night before in her dreams— no, her nightmares. They were memories of her father abandoning her and her mother when Rouge was only an infant. She hated the cloaked man who stood beside her, her father. She hated the irony that she was with him again after all these years of exile, and she hated the rain he had dragged her into.

It was in fact, on that early summer night, raining. Moisture seemed to just hang in the air, laced with the heat. The summer holidays had begun, ending Rouge's fourth year at Beauxbatons and she and her mother sat in the parlor. Rouge chatted obliviously, but her mother was quieter than usual, and afraid. She kept glancing expectantly at the clock on the mantelpiece and over to the front door. Rouge noticed nothing, but her mother trembled with rising fear.

Simultaneously, like wheels in motion lining up, a clap of thunder echoed through the halls, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the late hour, and the front door swung open wide, letting in the rain that rode on a gust, bursting open as though thrown by the violent winds outside. Rouge leapt to her feet and looked frantically from the swaying door to her mother, who still sat in her armchair, her crystal blue eyes wide with terror.

Rouge stared with bewilderment at her mother, but her attention was drawn back to the door as someone stepped inside. He strode into the parlor as another clap of thunder rang and Rouge's mother averted her eyes to the floor, avoiding his gaze in subordinate reverence. Rouge stood rooted to the spot, glaring at the cloaked intruder with enraged defiance.

"Get up," he snapped the command at Rouge's mother, who rose quickly to her feet. "Pack her things. She's coming with me to England." Rouge's mother made no argument and obeyed.

"I will do no such zing!" Rouge shouted boldly, and a little louder than she intended, nearing hysteria with confusion. "And 'oo do you zink you are?! Barging in 'ere—"

"Rouge, chérie," her mother cut-in quietly, "you shouldan't talk to your fazzer zat way..."

"Father?!" Rouge practically screamed. Her father smirked in a satisfied sort of way. Rouge decided then that she hated that smug look and held this opinion for a long time.

"That's right, Rouge," he said lazily, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. "And as my heir, it's your duty to come to England with me."

"_You_ can't make me do anyzing," she snarled viciously.

"Oh, I can't, can I?" he asked, blinking those cat-like eyes in mock innocent curiosity. He stepped closer to Rouge, threateningly, but she stood her ground. "Indeed, we shall see about that... Imperio!"

Blissful, blank, emptiness filled Rouge's mind and she could nothing but obey. She was led from her home in France by her father's wand with only the last sight of her mother's tear-stained face, miserable but accepting, as she watched her daughter be steered away. The memory seemed so obscured now; the phantasmagoria of it being played over in her mind was much to fast for reality. The entrance, the exit, and all in between much to fast, and yet she could remember it as nothing else but this rapid exchange of words and tutelage. But still Rouge's father dragged his cobalt-eyed daughter from town to town, gathering old followers until she wound up in the cemetery by the hill, just on the northwest outskirts of Newcastle. And all she could really say positively about the experience was that her English accent had improved.

Rouge stood beside her father that night, just as she had done all summer, until all the other cloaked and masked figures disapperated, leaving only the two. It was still raining when the sun began to rise in the gray sky as Rouge and her father trudged through the mud and mire. She guessed that they were heading somewhere that they could use a portkey. Rouge's inability to apperate hindered and obviously annoyed her father. That's all she seemed to be – an annoyance and a burden. She didn't know what their destination was this time just yet, she rarely did.

"You'll be going to Diagon Ally today," her father informed her suddenly, breaking their accustomed silence. "You'll be getting your school supplies."

"Where _I'll_ be getting my school supplies?" she inquired, clearly feeling anxiety about the idea. "Aren't you coming with me?"

"No," he answered flatly. There was no doubt he'd rather do anything else than take his daughter shopping. He stopped walking. "This'll do."

Rouge followed his gaze. He was surveying one of the statues of the graveyard, a marble angel that towered over them. Stone wings spread grandly, though the tips of her wings were broken, her hair and maiden robes floated about her divine figure by an unseen wind, arms opened lovingly to the father and daughter at her feet as she smiled. But the marble of the angel was darker with the moisture that coated it and the nocturnal darkness all around it, and the rain that poured down her sinless face collected in her pupil-less yet smiling eyes and trickled from the corners, as though she were crying.

"_Portus_," Rouge's father muttered, wand pointed to the statue, and Rouge watched the statue glow blue, as though an inner light were shining through those outspread arms, the light reaching even the tips of her fingers as the angel trembled for a few seconds, then became still again. Rouge's father reached up and touched the hand of the statue, and, following his example, Rouge reached up and touched the angel's other hand, fingers barely reaching the angel's hand that was held palm-up in silent offering.

Just before Rouge felt the expected tug behind her navel as she heard her father whisper, _'one... two... three...'_ she threw back her head, letting her hood fall. She stared pitifully at the sky, as though asking the heavens, '_Why me?_' She let the rain roll down her face—the angel's tears—indistinguishable from her own.

'_Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary...'_ she quoted Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in her pathetic though hopeful thoughts as she was pulled through the portkey.

She was right. Longfellow was right. Longfellow was always right.

But the rain hadn't yet come to a boy in Little Whinging, Surrey.

Note to readers: Now for some instructions for you folks who are new to these wonders of Believe it or not, you new people, you, there are more chapters to this fiction than this! To get to the next chapter, first you must notice the drop bar menu on the bottom of this page to the right (it reads "1. English Rain" or whatever the chapter-number and name happens to be). Then, notice the small arrow button to the right of the drop bar menu. To get to the next chapter, just click that nice, little, arrow button, and to skip to another chapter, just click the drop bar menu and select the chapter. Thanks for reading! Oh! And you might want go to that drop bar to your left, too, and leave me a review just to make me happy. I'd really appreciate some feedback! I always do!


	2. The Summer of Dreams

Disclaimer: You know the drill, I own nothing. Don't sue me.

Note to readers: Thank you so much, Tess, for reviewing my story. It means so much to me that you think I have talent, and wanting me to continue the story.

Chapter 2: The Summer of Dreams

Harry Potter, like so many times before, awoke with a start.

He jackknifed in bed as though jolted by an electric shock, panting heavily as he searched for his glasses one-handedly, the other placed upon his burning scar. He wiped the cold sweat off his brow and he put his glasses back on, staring into the darkness of his small room with the thought, "How many times have you woken up because of nightmares? Because of this scar?"

He squinted as though he were trying to see something in the pitch black around him, trying to see the dream he just had. It was like most of the others; going through a portkey, Cedric falling dead at his side, curses flying past him as he ran for his life... All memories from the third task, but there was something new about this dream, there was another portkey, one that wasn't the Goblet of Fire, one he didn't go through. And someone else was in that dream... but who? The dream slipped from his memory as the pain in his scar slowly faded.

Sometimes, more often then not, Harry found himself wishing that it would all fade. That all his memories of the Third Task would just disappear – all the dreams, everything – so he could simply believe it had never happened. The world seemed so quiet here at Privet Drive; there was nothing to suggest evil in the world (though the Dursleys were extremely unpleasant, they weren't exactly _evil_). Nothing to make one think that Voldemort had returned at all, and he could only guess what state his own world was in. He wanted to guess that the wizarding world was as quiet as Privet Drive, he wanted to believe it, and that Voldemort's return was only as he had seen it replayed over and over in his head: a dream.

Harry lay back on his bed, listening to the snores of his cousin, relieved that no one had woken up, though he probably wouldn't have cared even if anyone had. His quiet summer was partly due to the fact that he hadn't seen much of the Dursleys all summer. Harry had stopped coming down to most of the meals in July. He didn't see the point anymore. They just acted like Harry was still at school, like he didn't exist. Harry didn't mind this much, because it meant they had stopped bothering him to do chores, and they let him have his trunk upstairs in his room. The solitude left him slightly out of touch with reality, in a rather trance-like state that helped him forget. He didn't even mind the loneliness. Hedwig helped with that.

Heaving himself out of bed, Harry got up and crept over to Hedwig's cage. She was wide-awake as she always was at night, her keen amber eyes peering up at him through a ruff of white feathers. Harry sat himself on the floor before her cage and asked, more to himself than her, "Should we leave?"

Hedwig hooted softly, almost encouragingly, and Harry smiled. He glanced back over at his bed and at his small, homemade calendar. _Friday, August 25_, it read.

__

No more time to wait around here, he thought. He had to return eventually, he just hoped he'd still be able to forget when he was back in the wizarding world. It'd be just like all the other years, he told himself. Classes and Quidditch... and Ron and Hermione... There was no Voldemort in his world. Voldemort was something intangible, nothing more than a threat... a bogeyman that mothers told their children about when they tucked them into bed. Voldemort wasn't real. He couldn't be real.

Creeping quickly around his room, he picked up all his possessions as he went, then dropped them all into his trunk and got dressed quickly.

Harry heaved his trunk down the staircase as quietly as he could, stopping every few stairs to listen to the steady snores of the Dursleys. Harry felt no reason to tell them he was leaving. He knew all too well that they didn't care. He doubted they'd even notice. His trunk landed on the floor with a small '_thud_' and Hedwig hooted nervously. Harry opened the front door quickly as he heard his cousin, Dudley, give a loud snore from upstairs and whine from the depths of sleep, "I want more butter on the toast, mummy..."

Harry muffled his laughter as he pulled his trunk out the front door and shut it with a '_click_' behind him.

The air smelled damp that August morning and a feeble wind came from the north, carrying a harbinger of rain with it. It was the kind of wind that always foretold rain, stronger winds, and general bad weather. It was the kind of wind to runaway from.

Harry looked around uncertainly. It's not like a fifteen-year-old boy with a trunk and an owl, standing at the corner of Privet Drive at 4 a.m. didn't look conspicuous. He scratched his head as the light morning breeze tossed about his hair, wondering what to do next, when the light of the lamppost above him flickered and died. Harry sighed exasperatedly as he reached into his trunk for his wand. He held it out and started to mutter, "Lumos—", when a large, purple, bus landed before him. Harry fell backwards with surprise, but when he realized his luck, he laughed with relief. _Déjà vu_, he thought, and the Knight Bus's doors opened to reveal the conductor, Stan Shunpike. He'd started his spiel before he'd even caught sight of Harry

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Jus stick out your— ...Blimey." Stan's spiel came to a grinding halt as he recognized Harry, lying on the ground in the early-morning darkness, and forgetting the rest of his welcoming speech he barreled on, "S'great teh see yeh 'gain, 'arry!"

"Yeah," Harry half-muttered under his breath, "great to see you, too."

Stan helped Harry haul his trunk onto the Knight Bus and they got it pushed under one of the beds.

"To London please," said Harry, holding out eleven sickles.

Stan took the money and yelled over to Ernie Prang, the driver, "Oy! Erinie! Looks who we's got's onboard! 'S 'arry Potter!"

Ernie looked back at Harry through his thick glasses, who smiled weakly at him, and went back to driving the bus. Harry sat down on the bed Stan directed him to, and Stan stood beside him, hands clinging to the bedpost eagerly.

"Ah saw yeh in th'Daily Prophet 'bout the Tri Wizard Tournament," Stan exclaimed excitedly. "Blimey, tha' mus've been great."

"Sure," Harry muttered while looking out the window, avoiding Stan's eyes, "really great."

Stan didn't get the hint and continued, "...Bein' 'Ogwarts champion an' all, wha' an 'onor..."

"I wasn't the only Hogwarts champion you know!" Harry interrupted suddenly, his voice sharp and acrid with anger. "What about Cedric? Does everyone always forget him!?" Harry said this with such fierceness, such rage that Stan got the hint, and edged away silently to the front of the bus.

Harry lay down on his bed with a sigh and stared out the window, watching the constantly changing scenery fly past him in a blur of dark shapes and dark colors and the occasional glimmer of starlight. The words, '_Does everyone always forget him?'_ ringing in his head. In a whisper he answered his own question, "I won't," and fell into a dream-filled sleep.


	3. Just a Mention

Disclaimer: You guessed it, I own nothing.

Note to readers: I'm really sorry this chapter took so long to write. I meant to have it out earlier, but I went on vacation and didn't get a chance to write it. If it seems a little rushed, you're probably right, I guess I did rush a bit. Thank you so much for all the reviews, we're up to four! (I haven't got a single bad review so far.) You're all so wonderful. Here are some personal thanks:

To **Kiota )**- Thank you for liking my story and wanting to continue reading it. I'll continue writing it for the kind readers like you.

To **Fire )** -Thank you for being my most loving (and lovable) reader. I wish I had more readers and reviewers like you (your review is very cheering). I'm glad you like my story and I know you will write amazing stories.

And especially to **Tess )** – Thank you ever so much for being my favorite, most loyal, and kind (and first) reader. I especially want to thank you for coming back to read the second chapter, and review it. I absolutely love your story "Face the Truth" and hope to see the third chapter out soon. I can't wait to read it. The second chapter was quite a cliffhanger.

Chapter 3: Just a Mention

Harry was awoken a few hours later by yet another 'BANG' of the bus landing at yet another destination and Stan nudging him gently on his shoulder.

"'Arry. 'Ey, 'arry, wake up," he muttered in a hushed voice. "We're almos' teh London."

"Wha—...? Oh... er, thanks, Stan," Harry said in a half-yawn, rubbing at his eyes.

Stan sat down on the bed across from Harry, sitting up uneasily straight. As Harry looked up at him, he noticed that he looked very nervous. Harry got the strange and uneasy feeling that Stan was thinking of Rita Skeeter's article last year, "HARRY POTTER 'DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS'" because of his outburst only a few hours ago. Harry smiled an apologetic sort of smile, and Stan cheered up slightly.

"Another 'Ogwarts student woss on the bus t'day," Stan said, still a little nervous, in attempt to start conversation. "She looked 'bout yer age."

"Who was it? Did you get a name?" Harry said leaning forward with interest, immediately thinking of Hermione.

Stan shook his head. "Naah, didn't get a name. Strange enuff, she came alone. We's dropped 'er off at the Leaky Cauldron jus' b'fore we picked up 'choo."

"What's so strange about coming alone?" Harry asked, slightly curious because he too came alone.

"Well, when we's picked 'er up she _wasn't_ alone. Someone was waiting wit' 'er. Probably 'er dad," Stan frowned. "She even turned to say good-bye, but 'e Apperated b'fore she could, the rude prat. The girl was real polite though, an' quiet. Barely said a word."

Harry leaned back in disappointment. He knew that if the girl's father could Apperate she couldn't be Hermione.

"Well, what did she look like?" Harry asked to keep the conversation going.

Stan furrowed his brow in thought. "She woss very pale..." he said slowly, as though trying to remember. "...'Ad blonde hair with _red_ _stripes_... an' really dark blue eyes..." He suddenly grinned at Harry with a devilishly knowing look. "She woss quite the looker."

Harry frowned and shook his head with embarrassment, answering quickly, "I don't think I know her. Are you sure she goes to Hogwarts?"

"Well, now thacha men'ion it, she 'ad just a bit of an accent. Not much, but a'little," Stan said, furrowing his brow again. "Probably French, but she was readin' a 'Ogwarts supplies list." He shrugged.

The Bus came to a bumpy stop with a final 'BANG' and three muggle cars had to jump out of the way as it parked. "London! Leaky Cauldron!" Ernie called out.

Harry got up and Stan helped him with his trunk. They placed it down on the puddle-scattered front of the Leaky Cauldron and Stan turned to get back on the bus. As he stepped in the doorway he called back to Harry, "Take care'a yehself, 'arry. Be careful out thair."

Harry waved as the doors to the bus slammed shut, the bus starting to pull away and he called back, "I will." That was starting to become an automatic answer, whether it was true or not. He watched the bus until it turned a corner and was out of his sight, but he could hear it 'BANG' once more, and disappear. He heaved his trunk into the grimy, dimly lit pub, thin streams of white light peeking through the boarded windows and onto the dusty floor and tables. He wondered absently about the girl on the Knight Bus, but she was soon forgotten as he saw a group of redheaded people sitting at a table nearby. Harry recognized them at once as the Weasleys. He set down his trunk and walked up behind a tall, lanky boy, who he soon recognized as Ron. Harry leaned closer to him and quickly clapped a hand to Ron's shoulder.

"Hey, Ron!" Harry yelled loudly and cheerfully, right by Ron's ear.

Ron promptly fell over backwards with surprise, which was exactly the reaction Harry was going for. Ron instantly leapt to his feet with only a moment of hesitance before he spoke.

"Harry! I didn't think you'd get here! I sent an owl with Errol, but I didn't think you'd get it in time." This was the Ron who Harry knew so well, always wanting to be a good friend, and never disappoint anyone, always the same.

"I didn't," Harry replied, grinning. "I just came to London on the Knight Bus. I was hoping you'd be here."

At that, Mrs. Weasley rounded upon Harry. "You went on the Knight Bus? _Alone?_ Oh, you poor dear." She pulled out a hairbrush from her handbag and tried to comb Harry's untidy hair. He didn't mind, for he hadn't gotten any motherly attention since the last time he had seen Mrs. Weasley at the third task, which wasn't exactly an affair he wanted to remember, but Ron obviously did mind.

"Mum, get off him," Ron groaned, pulling Harry away from Mrs. Weasley. "We need to go find Hermione."

"Fine," Mrs. Weasley said with a sigh, "but try to do _something_ productive while you're out. Get more of the supplies on your list... find your father and brothers..."

"Yes, Mum," Ron groaned as he pulled Harry out of the Leaky Cauldron and out to the brick wall, leaving a worried Mrs. Weasley and a blushing Ginny behind. Ron tapped a brick on the wall with his wand (three up, two across), muttering to himself ("...you'd never think I became a prefect, the way she treats me...") and the entrance to Diagon Ally appeared before them.

If Harry thought the gawking and whispering at Hogwarts was bad, he was terribly mistaken. It seemed that the Tri Wizard Tournament had made him even more famous, and a little feared. It'd made him _infamous. _The crowds practically parted as they walked down the packed cobblestone street, the summer sun glaring down on their heads. A group of what looked like third-year girls had started to follow Harry and Ron, pointing and whispering. Harry started to turn around to tell the girls off, but he and Ron suddenly heard a familiar voice behind them.

"HARRY! RON!" Hermione called shrilly down the street. Harry ran over to her with Ron at his heels, both quite glad to get away from the fan club following them. Hermione met them halfway. She was standing on the balls of her feet with excitement.

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad we met up here! The summer holidays seemed _so long_! I felt like I'd never see you two again! Though I can't wait to get back to school, this being fifth year and all, with O.W.L.s this year..." This was the Hermione Harry had always known and loved for the good friend that she was. She was always ready to get back to school, but always a watching out for him and Ron, always the same.

"Speak for yourself, Hermione. I could go for another few months of holidays," Ron spoke up glumly.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron and continued, "We better get to Gringotts so we can buy our school things."

Hermione turned and started down the street toward the large marble building with Ron walking along beside her. Harry walked just behind Ron, listening to them talking together, finding himself slightly surprised that they had both become prefects as he distantly took in their conversation and their displaying of their badges to one another, but he gradually slowed as he looked at the different shops. This was his fourth time in Diagon Ally, and he had seen quite a lot of it, but everything here was always more interesting the more times you looked at it, as was one of the many beauties of the wizarding world. Nothing stays the same – not really.

Ron and Hermione soon got farther and farther ahead of Harry, but it escaped his notice. He was giving a passing glance to the brightly colored umbrellas of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor when he came to the entrance of Nocturn Ally. A pained expression spread across his face as he saw a knobby old wizard selling Powered Acromantula Fangs for fifteen sickles each near the entrance, shaking the bottles of the sickly-looking powder at any unfortunate person to pass by. Harry began to quicken his pace, wanting to put as much space between the Acromantula Fangs and himself as possible, but a hint of blue and red he saw out of the corner of his eye made him stop.


	4. In a Clash of Green and Blue

Disclaimer: I, still, own nothing. (Except for Rouge and the so-called plot.)

Note to readers: Once again, this chapter is late. I'm dreadfully sorry. Life doesn't seem to have as much time as it use to. I promise to get the next chapter posted really soon! Thanks again for all the reviews. I've gotten eleven so far and I love them all. Here's some personal "thank you"s:

To **AF )** - I'm flattered that you think I'm a good writer, and I'm pleased you like the story as much as you do. The phrase "practice makes perfect" comes to mind (believe me, I would know, though I'm far from perfect) so just remember to never give up and keep writing.

To **makie** - The story's interesting? Really? I always thought the plot was rather weak... (what plot?) So for the readers like you that leave the reviews that I've grown so fond of, I'll continue writing.

To **Lindsay )** - All these people are telling me this fanfic is good! I've never gotten this many compliments before! I hope you didn't wait at your computer the whole time waiting for this (that's a rather long time to wait. =P) Thanks for thinking I have talent and HARRY POTTER FANS FOREVER!!!

To **=Skade=** - Do you really think I would intentionally make this fic a Mary Sue? I hope not (please stop me if I do). This fic would be nothing without you; you've helped me so much. You've always been there to give me advice and you've always been my favorite writer. So I just want to say "Thanks". Pray that this story turns out!

To **CloudChick** – Thank you so much, Lissa, for reading my fanfic. It means a lot to me that you like it. I hope to see your fanfic up soon! See you in the message boards!

To **AMB3R** – THANK YOU SOOOOO MUCH FOR READING MY FANFIC!!! Your story "Hermione's Crush" is great and I can't wait for the next chapter! You're oh-so-nice in your reviews. I hope the cliffhanger wasn't too bad. I promise to make it up by getting the next chapter up soon.

To **Raegan** – YAAY!!! You finally read my fanfic! I thought you never would... Thanks for reading! See you in the message boards!

Chapter 4: In a Clash of Green and Blue

And their eyes met in a clash of green and blue.

There was a girl standing at the entrance of Nocturn Ally.

Harry simply stared at her. Something about her, something Harry couldn't figure out, caught his eye. Maybe it was the way her expression was frighteningly emotionless, completely devoid of any sign of feeling or life. The way blood seemed to drip from her silvery hair. The way her endless, blue eyes gave him a rush of cold. The way he drowned in those eyes. He was struggling for breath, fighting the weight that dragged him down, fought not to sink, but the surface seemed so far away...

Screaming slowly surrounded him.

Screaming. That was all Harry could hear, the pleas and screams of his mother just before she died. The screams he was so familiar with from his nightmares. What did this girl have to do with his nightmares? Why did intrude upon his private terrors? Why? Harry suddenly felt a sharp pain on his scar. His scar only hurt when Voldemort was around, and the fact that his scar hurt now, of all places, scared him. He tried to look over his shoulder as if he expected Voldemort to be standing right behind him, among the patrons on this crowded street, but he couldn't break his stare on the girl.

The lights around him seemed to fade.

Everything was fading, except the screams, until there was only darkness, and her. She just stood there, staring. The cold was steadily growing worse. Harry felt numb. He felt the sensation of fainting; he was falling. He was falling into the abyss of the girl's eyes, sinking farther and farther, the light of the surface becoming farther and farther away, growing fainter and fainter... but a light tap on his shoulder brought him back to his senses.

Harry turned around sharply to see Hermione staring up at him, her eyes filled with concern. Harry just stared back, his brilliant green eyes wide with fear. After a long, awkward pause, Hermione brought herself to ask what she swore to herself that she wouldn't after the night of the Third Task, yet she could think of nothing else to say, "...Harry? Are you all right?"

Without answering, Harry turned back around to find that the girl was no longer there. Only then did he realize that the screams were gone and... everything was as it should be, as if she'd never been there at all. But why did he still feel so cold?

Harry turned back to Hermione, who was still staring up at him with extreme worry. Harry nodded.

"I'm fine, Hermione," he reassured her. "It was nothing."

Hermione blinked several times before she said, "Okay... If you're sure..." She didn't sound very convinced, but Harry ignored it. He took Hermione's arm and walked silently up toward Gringotts.

In a small shop in Nocturn Ally, Rouge chuckled to herself, a smirk – just a slight up-turn of the corners of her lips – on her pale face as she peered out of the shop's front window and into the crowd and watched two teenagers disappear among marble pillars.

"What're you so happy about?" the sneering shopkeeper asked her absentmindedly.

The dark waters of Rouge's blue eyes stirred as she started towards the door.

She lilted her answer, "I just saw the famous Harry Potter."

Note to readers: I know it should be longer, but I want to stop there. The next chapter will be up soon, so please don't come after me with torches and pitchforks!


	5. An Unlikely Heir of Slytherin

Disclaimer: All disclaimers apply. I own nothing that belongs to our hero, J.K.

Note to readers: I hope this chapter is long enough for you! I am really sorry about the shortness of chapter four, but it was such a good place to stop… Oh well, I hope this makes up for it.

Oh, and I'd like to inform you of something else, I have no idea what ships will be in this fic. For you people out there unfamiliar with fanfiction jargon, what I mean by "ships" is the relationships (Relation_ships_? _Ships_? Get it?) such as Harry/Hermi or Ron/Hermi that we find so common in fanfics. So don't get your hopes up, or come after me with torches and pitchforks. I guess you could say that I don't know "where my loyalties lie"(I know, it's a bad Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone quote…). But by chapter thirteen or fourteen, (yes, I've planned out that far) I'll have a poll up for you readers to decide what ships should be in this fic.

And once again, more personal thank yous and notes:

To **Lindsay )** – I really hope the chapters keep getting better and better, or I'll probably be in trouble with you readers. I can't wait for the next chapter of your fanfic and I promise to send you a fanart pic of Harry as soon as my scanner decides to start working again… Thanks again for your reviews!

To **CloudChick** – I will keep writing gosh darn it! And none of you can stop me! (Okay, I know that sounded really stupid, but it was fun.) See you in the message boards!

To **Michelle )** – I love it when people tell me that they love this fanfic. It makes me feel like I've accomplished something worthwhile. So thank you, because just a few words can change someone's view of everything. We all love HP fan fiction so we might see what else is brewing in the depths of Hogwarts… (Sorry, I'm getting a little too poetic.)

To **Mira Zareel** – Thank you sooooooo much for liking my fanfic. It's a great compliment hearing praises from such a great writer like you. I can't wait for the next chapter of "Learning to Breathe". I love that fic so, so much. Your originality is amazing and I can't wait to read more.

To **Feather** – YAAY!!! You finally reviewed my fanfic! I was worried you never would… sweatdrops Silly me… How could I doubt you?… I hope the "cliffie" wasn't too bad. I wouldn't want to leave you in suspense (yeah right). I'm glad you think this is an original story, but I'm not that sure. I've found a sickening amount of "Heir of Voldemort" stories, and I hope this fic won't turn out like most of them. I'm not worrying about the Mary Sue thing too much anymore, cause I retook the Mary Sue test after long and tedious planning of the story and character work and - drum roll please - I PASSED!!! Rouge's isn't a Mary Sue!!! So, as you can see, I'm happy. I hope to see more writing from you soon!

To **CaptinNobody** – Wow… You reviewed my fanfic… Frankly, I'm amazed. I was sure you'd look down on it with disgust because it's a Harry Potter fic, but no, you gave it a good review. Alyssa, you never fail to amaze me… I really like your two little fics (anime is funny…) and I hope you write more "Stupid Anime-Related Things To Do During School". Those are great (I'm sure we've both done a few. Teeheehee…). I'll keep writing, I can promise you that.

To **Kiota** – I love your review. Short and to the point, but still positive. I'll keep writing as long as the readers like you keep reading.

To **Draco (Valgaavsan) )** – OH, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!! I'm so happy you read my fanfic, and it's such a wonderful compliment that you like it. I could never write spurt of the moment, I just can't. It's not right for "more-than-one-chapter-long" fanfics. I'll continue writing it, I promise! Please keep reading! I'll be online almost all the time during winter break and I hope to spend quite a lot of it RPing with you and Ashley.

To **DarkenedSunrise7** – Thanks for liking my fanfic. And I'm glad to know that someone reads my profile on Neopets. I was starting to think no one did…

To **Purple Ink** – Thanks, I just randomly chose the name Rouge while in an RPG one day. And don't worry, Lord Voldemort will eventually get his… maybe… oh I don't know… Oh, well. Here's the next chapter! Enjoy!

Thank you everyone for all the reviews! I've gotten twenty-one so far and I love them all! You're all so kind for always encouraging me to keep writing and I will keep writing. Really. You can count on it.

Chapter 5: An Unlikely Heir of Slytherin

Pushing all her weight behind it, Rouge opened one of the giant, oak front doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her trunk floated beside her like an obedient dog, an aura of levitation spells and charms around it. September 1st had finally arrived, and Rouge had arrived in Hogsmede by portkey earlier that afternoon. The setting sun's brilliant, glowing light hit the doors as Rouge closed them behind her. It was almost nightfall and the school held no students yet, except for one and her trunk.

Rouge walked across the flagged stone floor of the Entrance Hall, going through a doorway to the left at the top of the staircase, and down the long main corridor, trying to feel as though she knew where she was going. Though despite her efforts, after a few minutes of hopeful wandering, she felt utterly lost. After another few minutes, a tall, strict-looking woman with her hair done in a tight bun turned a corner from another entranceway and walked into the long corridor. Rouge seized the opportunity and ran over to the woman calling out, "Excuse me? Prof—...Professor?" She struggled with the word, as 'Professeur' had immediately came to mind, and the English felt awkward on her tongue.

Professor McGonagall looked up from the piece of parchment she had been reading and stared at Rouge with surprise.

"Yes? May I help you?" she answered, blinking at Rouge.

"Would you please tell me where the Headmaster's office is?" Rouge asked with forced politeness.

Professor McGonagall blinked again and, without answering Rouge's question, asked, "And why do you need to see the Headmaster? The train can't possibly have arrived yet..."

"I'm a new transfer student and I arrived early to sort out some last minute details with the Headmaster, as was his instructions," Rouge replied quickly.

Professor McGonagall blinked once again then nodded, still looking at Rouge in a curious manner. "Yes... oh, yes, of course. His office is down this corridor, up the staircase to the second floor, down the empty corridor and behind the stone gargoyle. The password is 'Sugar Quills'."

"Thank you, Professor—..." Rouge said, smiling weakly, forcing her tongue to move around the title of authority, though she trailed off, prompting the Professor for her name.

"McGonagall," she finished for Rouge, and recited her résumé as a method of formal introduction, "I'm the Deputy Headmistress, Transfiguration Professor, and Head of Gryffindor House."

Rouge nodded as though she understood. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I shall see you in class." And Rouge walked down the corridor without another word, leaving a nonplussed Professor McGonagall muttering to herself, "Now, that couldn't have been her..."

"Sugar Quills," Rouge commanded, feeling a bit silly and uncertain, hoping that the information Professor McGonagall had given her was correct, but then the gargoyle leapt aside, revealing a moving spiral-staircase, spiraling steadily upwards. Rouge stepped onto the first step and let it carry her spiraling up, her trunk still floating behind her. She knocked on the gleaming oak door at the top of the staircase with the griffin-shaped brass knocker, and heard a faint, "_Come in_," from inside.

The door opened and Rouge stood timidly in the doorway as she stared around the circular office, waiting for permission to come forward, as it was proper Beauxbatons manners.

She didn't have to wait long. "Come in, miss, and sit down," Professor Dumbledore said kindly as he gestured to the chair in front of his claw-footed desk. Reluctantly, Rouge stepped forward and made what would have brought an onlooker to think was a heroic effort to cross the room, and she sat down. Her trunk waited at the door.

"Now, who are you, my dear girl?" Professor Dumbledore asked. "I don't believe I've seen you around the school before—"

"You haven't," Rouge finished for him, somewhat forgetting her Beauxbatons manners in her increasing nervousness. "I'm a new transfer student."

"Ah, yes. The student from Beauxbatons," Professor Dumbledore said leaning back in his chair. "We received word of you a couple weeks ago."

Rouge nodded quietly.

"Before we get started," Dumbledore said slowly, "what is your name?"

Rouge wasn't quite sure why he asked this. He must have received her name along with the rest of her information, but Rouge answered obediently, "My name is Rouge Rid—"

She faltered as Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes twinkling. Rouge got a strong feeling that she shouldn't use her real name, no matter how her father felt about it, or even her mother. It would be far too suspicious, especially to the ears of Albus Dumbledore.

Rouge continued, "Rouge Magie." This wasn't completely untrue. 'Magie' was her mother's surname. Why shouldn't Rouge use it? She always had. Professor Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes still twinkling.

"...Red magic," he repeated. Apparently he knew French. "Quite a beautiful name."

"Thank you, sir," Rouge said, staring down at the floor, avoiding Dumbledore's eyes. They gave her the unnerving sensation that her knew more than he claimed to. That he knew all about her... all her secrets...

There was an awkward silence suddenly broken by Dumbledore. "You have quite the English accent for a Beauxbatons student."

"English is a fairly easy language to learn with enough motivation. I had to take lessons, of course, and maman encouraged me to use it at home, even as a young child, so it was like I grew up leaning both languages," Rouge explained on reaction. "I stayed in England all summer, since part of my family is English..." Rouge's voice trailed off as she realized she had said too much. But was it really too much? How could he possibly know?

Professor Dumbledore acted as though he didn't hear anything strange as he reached into his desk and pulled out some pieces of parchment that were covered in emerald, calligraphic writing. He read them for a few minutes in silence then said, "Your classes have already been decided, all your papers are in order, for permission to go to Hogsmeade and the like... but you still need to be sorted."

Rouge looked up. "Sorted?"

"Sorted into your house," Dumbledore said matter-of-factly.

Rouge stared blankly at Dumbledore, but said nothing. The phrase "sorted into your house" meant nothing to her.

He continued, "You can be sorted with the first years at the Start-of-Term feast, or sorted here. You may decide."

"Here please," Rouge answered a little more quickly than she had intended. "I wouldn't want to make a spectacle of myself..."

"Perfectly understandable," Dumbledore said as he got up from his desk and walked over to one of the many bookshelves to the side of his desk. He picked up an old and battered wizard hat and continued, "I'll simply place this hat on your head and it will say in which house you belong. Either Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin."

The last thing Rouge saw before the brim of the sorting hat fell over her eyes were Dumbledore's eyes twinkling at her, all his wisdom behind the sparkling blue. Rouge folded her hands neatly in her lap and she heard a small voice in her ear.

"Hmm... this shan't be too difficult. A good mind, yes, and put to good use when you're motivated... And a hard, dedicated worker when it suits you, though fickle... But you're ambitious and self-preserving, and even more importantly, the newest Heir of Slytherin has come to Hogwarts. There's no doubt where to put you."

__

Slytherin? Rouge thought. The name sounded familiar. _Isn't that Father's old house?_

"Of course," the hat said airily, "he was probably the greatest Slytherin since Salazar himself. He was his heir after all..."

__

But I don'twant_ to be like Father._

"You can hide it from the world, Rouge, but you can't hide it from me. It is who you are."

__

No, Rouge thought firmly, her neatly folded hands now clenched into fists_, I refuse to become a Slytherin, family or not._

"Ah... a rebellious one," The hat said thoughtfully. "That's a Gryffindor quality-"

__

Fine, Rouge interrupted, _put me there._

"Are you sure?" The hat asked as though it were taunting her. "You're father won't be too pleased, him with him Slytherin pride and all..."

__

JUST PUT ME IN GRYFFINDOR! Rouge thoughts screamed in her head.

"Well, if you're sure... It's your choice," The hat said in Rouge's ear, then yelled aloud, "GRYFFINDOR!"

"Gryffindor," Dumbledore repeated fondly as he set the sorting hat back on the bookshelf. "A fine house. I'm glad to see we have yet another student to help Gryffindor win the house cup for the fifth year in a row."

"Yes, sir," Rouge replied tonelessly.

Dumbledore pulled a pocket watch from his cloak and stared at it for a moment. "Well, the Start-of-Term feast will start shortly. I shall escort you-"

"Er, excuse me, sir?" Rouge interrupted timidly.

"Yes, Miss Magie?"

"Would you terribly mind if I would just go to the dormitories? I need to unpack and…"

Dumbledore nodded. "No, not at all. That's quite all right, you may go to your dormitory. The Gryffindor common room is through the Entrance Hall, up about five staircases, though doors hidden by sliding panels, hanging tapestries, and such, and, on the seventh floor, is behind the oil painting of the lady in a pink silk dress. The password is 'Skinned Shrivelfigs'." Dumbledore smiled warmly as though this were insanely simple. "I'm sure you'll find it."

"Thank you, sir," Rouge thanked him as she got up from her chair and walked toward the door. Dumbledore chivalrously opened it for her and they rode down the staircase together with Rouge's trunk floating behind them.

As they reached the parting of their ways, Rouge bid Dumbledore goodbye, turned, and walked down the corridor.

Dumbledore watched Rouge walk swiftly down the corridor until she and her trunk were just a flicker of movement in the distance and said to himself as he walked towards the Great Hall, "Goodbye, Rouge Riddle."


	6. Change

Disclaimer: My evil plan didn't work and I still don't own any thing that belongs to J.K. But I do own Rouge and Lilith Septimius and the plot.

Note to readers: I finally got this done! YAAY! It took me forever to get a name for the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor (which has been changed). But I got it done! So be happy! Chapter seven should be out later this week 'cause I already got it written out. This chapter is a result of too many cups of coffee at two in the morning so, ENJOY! Here are some more thank yous:

To **Kiota** - YAAY! More compliments! I don't think I've ever been called a _terrific_ writer before. Thanks!

To **LittleMaggie** – How could you not know she's Voldemort's daughter?! I was sure I had given it away... Oh well... On with the story. You really deserve _glorious_ reviews. You're a great writer. And I'm glad you like the cliffhangers I like writing cliffhangers.

To **PotterGirl** – Well, let's hope this chapter is as good as the others...

To **Skade** – I love your reviews. They're so helpful. I'm glad you like my fic. I don't know what I'd do if you didn't like it... probably quit... Oh, well. WRITE MORE!!! I WANT MORE RAIN!!!

To **Captinnobody** – YAAY! Yet again you read my fic, Alyssa. I was sure you, of all people, would hate it. I have another book for your list of books to read: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It's really, really good. It's your kind of book… A funny Sci-Fi. I'll keep you suggestions in mind . Oh, and for a good description of a Mary-Sue and a test to see if your character's a Mary-Sue, go to 

To **Feather** – You must be the greatest reviewer of all my readers. You're specific in what's good and your not afraid to say when you want the next chapter out. So... Here you go!

To **Gen Osbourne (OzzyroxIluvhim) )** – You must be the most impatient reader I have. Well here's the next chapter and no more reminder reviews! I'm glad you like my fic! Good luck on "Crazy Train"!

To **Purple Ink** – Well, it seems that you got me working. NO MORE POINTLESS REVIEWS!!!

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I've got 33 so far! Remember: Keep an eye out for the next chapter because it WILL be out REALLY SOON! Thanks again!

Chapter 6: Change

Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked into the Great Hall among their classmates, just as the candles floated among the murmurs that drifted through the air. But as Harry's presence became known, the hall silenced, and all eyes fell upon him. But the little noise there happened to be was not particularly welcome to Harry's ears.

"...Look...! There he is...!" "You mean he actually came back...?" "How could he possibly show his face here...?" __

"...After what he did to Cedric..."

"...We all know it was his fault..."

These accusing words rang throughout the hall, coming mostly from the Hufflepuffs, still mourning Cedric's death, and the Slytherins, taking any opportunity to point any accusations at Gryffindor. Harry did his best to ignore this as he always did, but he found it much harder than usual. Things tend to become harder when you're accused of someone's death.

Everyone found their seats at the tables and the first years made their way to the front of the Great Hall. They were quite a nervous-looking group. Harry wondered if they knew about what happened at the Tri Wizard Tournament. He wondered if they knew what troubled times and hardship awaited them here at Hogwarts. They were just children who happened to be unfortunate enough to be so young in such times, and so helpless.

The sorting ceremony began and finished quicker than Harry's brain was willing to follow. He hadn't paid much attention. He hadn't even heard the song. He had been detached from the rest of the world during the last weeks of summer, on the train, and even now. Ron and Hermione noticed this, but found it better not to mention, which happened to be for the best. How could they possibly know? How could they understand? They couldn't, of course, so Harry kept to himself.

The first years waiting to be sorted eventually thinned out and Dumbledore stood up to give his announcements. He gave his usual, "Stay out of the Forbidden Forest," and "Mr. Flich would like to remind you..." speeches, but Harry didn't pay attention to those either. He found himself expectantly looking up and down the staff table, looking for a new face.

His eyes soon fell upon a woman whom he had never seen before. She looked fairly young, mid-thirties, perhaps, from a distance. Her skin was unnaturally pale, as though she stubbornly refused to be in the light of day, locked up in a dark office. Her face was framed with glossy black hair that was thrown behind her, but her ebon eyes were tired, almost _weary_ with experience. Yet the thing that really struck Harry as odd, was the long, thin scar going down her right cheek just below her right eye.

The final speech that Dumbledore gave was announcing the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. The teacher was this woman.

"I'd like you all to welcome," Professor Dumbledore said, "Lilith Septimius!"

The entire hall looked up at the staff table to catch glimpse of their new teacher, some even applauded politely. Professor Septimius nodded absentmindedly and turned her interest back to her goblet. There was no doubt that it was filled with something stronger than tea.

"Professor Septimius," Dumbledore continued, "took leave from her job in the Ministry of Magic when she heard there was an opening here at Hogwarts as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."

A few more people applauded politely, but Professor Septimius didn't nod.

"Wow," Hermione whispered to Harry in complete awe, "We're never gotten a _woman_ Defense Against the Dark Arts professor before."

Harry nodded to appease her, and turned his attention to his golden plate, which had filled itself while Dumbledore was introducing Professor Septimius.

It was a splendid feast, as it always was, but Harry spent most of it looking over his shoulder. He wasn't sure if it was the whispers, where he'd occasionally hear the names "Harry" or "Cedric" that always made him jump no matter how many times he heard them among the din of talk and the clatter of cutlery, or just the unnerving sensation that something wasn't quite right. Maybe it was that Ginny only tried talking to him once before she retreated to Colin Creevy's side. Or that Ron and Hermione kept to themselves with tidbits of conversation and occasionally threw Harry worried looks out of the corners of their eyes. Whatever it was, it was not pleasing him.

Eventually when the dessert (or at least what was left of it) disappeared, Dumbledore rose to his feet and told the prefects to lead their houses to the common rooms. Only then did Harry remember that his two best friends had become prefects as both Ron and Hermione got to their feet and helped herd the Gryffindors out of the hall. They had told him, he was sure they had told him, but he had forgotten it like it was nothing. It just went to show how detached he was, even from his best friends.

The fire died slowly in the emptying Gryffindor common room. Most of the students had gone to bed, but some of the older Gryffindors talked amongst themselves into the late evening. And there, Harry sat watching the others with blank eyes. Hermione and Ginny were quietly talking together occasionally giggling while Ron and Seamus argued heatedly about... something to do with Quidditch, Harry didn't seem able to keep up with it. Nothing seemed to have changed. They were still the same people doing the same things they always did.

Except for Harry. He had changed.

He was isolating himself from the others. He didn't want their sorry looks. He didn't want their pity. He didn't want any of it.

Harry looked around the common room for no particular reason. He knew every inch of the common room, for it never changed, but maybe that was why he was looking. He wanted to find something to different. Something to tell him that he wasn't the only thing that had changed.

Change just happened to be sitting in a corner. Harry peered over at the darkened armchair, totally engulfed in shadow. As Harry stared his eyes slowly adjusted to the light and a person's figure came into view. He could tell it was a girl. She was reading, and her head was bent down looking at a book propped up in her lap. He couldn't see her face. Her blonde hair fell in front of her face, covering it like a curtain.

Harry's stomach gave a sudden lurch.

The hair around the girl's face had red streaks.

Harry looked away quickly and sank into his armchair.

__

No, he pleaded in his thoughts, _please don't let it be _her_._

Harry summoned all his courage and looked around the back of his chair at the girl. The girl looked up and her endless, cobalt blue eyes washed over him like a wave of ice. Harry felt his insides turn cold.

It was the girl from Nocturn Ally.

__

Of all the places, Harry's thoughts complained, _of all the wizarding schools, of all the common rooms… it just _had_ to be this one…_

Harry simply stared at her, no fear in his gaze, nothing trepid or craven about it in the slightest. He merely stared, his lips pulling back and thinning into a faint grimace.

__

No, Harry's thoughts tried to convince himself, _It's not her. The lights _aren't_ dimming. I _don't_ hear screaming. My scar _doesn't_ hurt. I'm _not_ fainting. She's just a girl! Just like any ordinary girl. She's not doing anything to me. Nothing!_

These were all lies, of course. And he knew it.

"Hey, Harry," a voice said from behind him. "What are you looking at?"

Harry snapped out of the girl's trance and spun around in his chair. Ginny was standing there, smiling down at him with that curious, oblivious, and innocent smile she always seemed to have. Harry blinked, feeling surprised and rather dazed, as though he'd just been shaken from the depths of sleep and dreams. Harry looked over at the girl's armchair just to see her walking over to the stairs to the girl's dormitories. Harry shook his head with a sigh that clearly said, '_Thanks a lot, Fate._'

"Nothing," Harry muttered to Ginny, "absolutely nothing."

Ginny blinked her oblivious blink.

"Oh," she said, trying to remain cheerful, "y'wanna play Wizard's Chess or something?"

Harry shook his head and forced an entirely fake yawn. "Uh, no thanks, Ginny. Er, I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go to bed."

Ginny's smile faded as Harry got up from his armchair.

"Oh," she said, her tone dripping with disappointment, "I guess I'll see you in the morning then. Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Ginny," Harry said looking over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs and toward his dormitory.

Hermione soon walked up the stairs to the girl's dormitories after saying a brief goodnight to Ron, who was acting sour since he lost miserably to Seamus in their argument. The first thing she noticed as she opened the door to the fifth year girl's dormitory was that there were four beds in their circular residence. Last year there had only been three: one for Lavender, one for Parvati, and one for herself. Why were there four?

The second thing she noticed was someone sitting on a bed, staring out the window, apparently the occupant of the mysterious fourth bed, being as Lavender and Parvati were still downstairs.

Hermione's curiosity overcame her and she cautiously cleared her throat. The girl looked back at Hermione without a moment's hesitation. They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity, analyzing each other, and Hermione took the burden of breaking the silence.

"Excuse me, but, are you lost?" she asked. "You see, this is the fifth year girl's dormitory and it's always been only three of us."

The girl spoke up, "Well, if this is the fifth year's dormitory, I'm in the right place."

Then Hermione did something she rarely did. She looked puzzled.

"My name's Rouge." The girl continued, "I'm a new transfer student."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, looking politely interested. "Well, I'm Hermione Granger."

"Nice to meet you, Hermione."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too... Rouge, wasn't it? So, where exactly did you transfer from?"

"Beauxbatons."

"Oh." Hermione felt a sudden impulse of great dislike at the name of the French Wizarding School. Images of Fleur from last year were still vivid in her mind. "Hmm. Well, it's late. I better go to bed. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

Hermione found her bed among the other three and crawled into it. She soon fell into an uneasy sleep, but Rouge stayed awake. Long enough to meet Lavender and Parvati, if they had noticed her, that is. But Rouge wasn't thinking about being ignored or disliked by her roommates. Her mind was on someone she saw in the common room.

__

Who knows, Rouge thought hopefully, _with Potter here, being Gryffindor could be an advantage._

Note to readers: I'm sorry that took so long to get out. It's been scattered through my different writing notebooks and I finally got around to putting it together. Hope you liked it. And I really hope it'll satisfy your reading needs until the next chapter...


	7. Petty Thoughts and Comments

Disclaimer: Just as everyone else, I own nothing that belongs to J.K. But Rouge and Lilith are characters of my own creation.

Note to readers: Here's the chapter I owe you. It's been sitting on my desktop for about a week. 'Hope it came out quickly enough for y'all. I'm really tired, so I won't say too much. Lemme sum-up: You won't be getting another chapter for awhile, probably not for two weeks or so. I'm gonna release chapter eight and nine at the same time, so sit tight and read summit else 'til then. But read, review, and enjoy this one for now. I could go into another long speech of how disappointed I am with it, but I'm tired, so I won't. I love all my reviews. Here are some more personal thank yous:

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Ashley malmstrom **) **- Congrats on being the first reviewer of chapter six. I don't know why I said that, I just felt like it. I don't wish to be hurt by Mr. Vipertooth the basilisk, so here's the more writing as requested. I'm gonna continue writing this fanfic, I don't think I could stop now without all you reviewer people coming after me with torches and pitchforks.

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Skade - I like angsty messed-up Harry Potter. That's the way he should be, don'tcha think? I didn't realize I had a _wonderful grip_ on my characters. I hope that's good. You'll be seeing more of Lilith's bitterness, not to mention her revenge-y-ness. Hermione will be snoopier, oh yes. She'll reach her snoopy climax at about chapter nine… eight if we're lucky. I like "last lines". Last lines are fun. But I doubt this last line (If you can call it a last line) is as _perfect_. WRITE MORE RAIN!!! I WANT MORE RAIN!!! Rain is good…

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CloudChick - That was an interesting review… "awesome"… "terrific"… "gr8"… good adjectives. :P I'll keep it up. I don't think I can stop now that I've gotten so far, now can I? Write more of "An Addition to the Group". You're doing such a good job with that.

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Feather – Are you saying the first chapter wasn't good?! - Just kidding. You know I love your reviews. I've even noticed that my writing's improved a bit since I started writing this. I guess this fic expresses how my talent is growing (right along with my ego). Scary thought isn't it? You can still whine… As long as it's for new chapters or cliffies or whatever comes along in this fic. You just can't whine that it's a bad fic… Oh, nooooooooooooo… You'd be banned from whining for that. -

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Gen Osbourne (ozzyroxiluvhim) **)** – I'm glad you think this keeps getting better and better. It gives me hope that the next chapter will be good. You won't have to wait any longer for this chapter, but I'm afraid you might have to wait quite a while for chapter eight… That'll take a while to write. So you are forewarned. Don't post any pointless reviews, they don't help. They just make me get mad at you. :P Just kidding. See you 'round the message boards!

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LittleMaggie – I liked your review. Short and to the point. Here's your more, more, more. But you'll have to wait a while for the next chapter…

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Kiota – 'Sorry I left you and all the other readers waiting and waiting. I hope I got this chapter posted quickly enough for your satisfaction. And, no. I've been called a terrific writer before. looks at reviews Uh… well… Maybe I have…

Thanks for all the reviews, everyone! I've gotten 40 and counting! Please post more. I love getting reviews. But now I'm sure you don't want to hear me ramble, so here's the story…

Chapter 7: Petty Thoughts and Comments

Hermione woke up the next morning earlier than Lavender or Parvati, and all they did was complain after what Hermione thought was right considerate attempts to wake them up, swatting her away and barricading themselves beneath layers of blankets. Hermione left them alone in disgust. But when Hermione went over to the last bed she found it already empty and neatly made. After a few minutes of wondering, Hermione decided that there was no Beauxbatons transfer student named Rouge and meeting her was just an unpleasant dream. Hermione left the dormitory in a somewhat better mood.

She came down to the common room early enough to be the only one there, have a quick reread of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five_, wait impatiently for Ron and Harry for longer than she thought was reasonable, then leave the common room alone feeling annoyed. When Hermione got to the Great Hall she saw only a few early-rising teachers and tired-looking students scattered sparsely about the hall. But as she walked over to the Gryffindor table she met her unpleasant dream. Rouge was sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table, placidly reading one of the textbooks.

Hermione could feel contempt bubble inside her. She didn't like this Rouge girl. There was just something... wrong about her, she knew there was, she was sure of it, and Hermione didn't like it. She sat down at the other end of the table and read one of her own textbooks while waiting for Harry and Ron.

When said two boys finally came down to the Great Hall almost the entire school was already up, and Harry was practically dragging a barely conscious Ron. They found seats across from Hermione and they sleepily dished themselves breakfast.

"What do we have first, Hermione?" Harry asked, leaning so far over with tiredness that his glasses had slipped down his nose, threatening to fall right into his plate.

"Potions with the Slytherins," Hermione recited flatly as she turned a page of her textbook. Ron groaned and let his head fall into his scrambled eggs.

"What a wonderful way to start term," Harry muttered sarcastically and viciously took a bite out of a piece of toast.

"Oh, cheer up. At least it's not double potions," Hermione said almost brightly. "That's not until Thursday."

Harry and Ron groaned in unison.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Come on, we don't want to be late. Not for Snape on the first day back."

Harry and Ron grunted replies that vividly reminded Hermione of speaking Troll, and they walked out of the Great Hall and down, down, down towards the dungeons.

After a few minutes the Gryffindors and Slytherins crowded into the dungeon classroom, finding desks with their friends. As Harry, Ron and Hermione found seats together, Harry saw something out of the corner of his eye. To his horror, he saw a girl in Gryffindor robes walking over to Draco Malfoy. And to his shocked amazement, he talked to her for a moment before Pansy Parkinson brutally pushed her away from Draco, sending the girl falling to the floor. As she fell Harry saw her face and all pity he just had for her was forgotten. He looked away quickly, avoiding the girl's cobalt blue eyes.

No one helped her up nor helped her collect the spilled contents of her bag. Not a single Gryffindor helped her, fellow Gryffindor or not, in prideful disgust that she talked to a Slytherin on friendly terms. No Slytherins helped her, which was no surprise to anyone. So she got up, collected her things herself, and walked quietly over to an empty table in the back. No one sat beside her.

Snape entered the dungeon just before the bell rang and his presence didn't go unnoticed. He strongly resembled something dangerous lying in wait, such as a dormant disease or a bomb waiting to be set off by a careless student. But this was not considered odd by anyone, and the class fell silent within seconds.

Snape had no greeting for the class, striding with a purposeful gait straight to the blackboard in the front and immediately began writing. In upper-case letters across the top of the board, he wrote "DITTANY" and beneath it, in lower-case, "_dictamnus albus_".

"Dittany," he said aloud, turning to the class, stone-faced. "Native to Crete, it grows in abundance on Mount Dicte. It's a non-poisonous, perennial, flowering herb with foliage that has a lemony, balsamic scent, so feel free to smell it, though be _very_ careful not to touch it directly; put on your dragon hide gloves when handling the plant. The whole plant is rich in volatile oil, which can be set alight as it evaporates, leaving the foliage intact and undamaged, though you may not be granted such mercy, so keep them _away_ from the burners." There was a momentary scramble as most of the class quickly moved their supply of the herb away from their cauldrons. "A common folk name for the plant is 'burning bush' for obvious reasons. ...Why aren't all of you writing this _down?_" Yet another scramble, this time for parchment and quills as Snape continued, "It's a commonly used herb, and we've touched on it since your _first year_ here, so this all ought to be _review_ for you. Let's see if it is... Who can name any of the potions it's used in?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air while everyone else's remained where it was.

"Anyone?" Snape asked airily, blatantly ignoring Hermione's hand. "Anyone at all?"

But Hermione would not be denied. She was now straining so hard to force her hand higher to be noticed that she was biting her lip and sitting on the edge of her seat. Snape sighed.

"Miss Granger?" he called out coldly.

Hermione let her hand fall. "_Dictamnus albus_ is used in such potions as Solomon's Opiate, Eau Generale, Hyacinth Mixture, and Guttète Powder."

Snape seemed to wait for a moment, then prompted steely with a sharp gesture, "..._And?_"

Hermione faltered, suddenly seeming unsure of herself. "...And, sir?" she echoed.

"I would like _all_ the potions, Miss Granger."

"Oh! And...and Balm of Fioraventi and...and... and Orvieton," she finished hurriedly.

"Correct," Snape said in a particularly drawling voice that made it seem as though saying it was very, very difficult. "It is these potions that we will be preparing over the next few weeks. You all _ought_ to know the well-known properties of dittany by now, or you shouldn't have passed your first year exams, but now it's high time you actually applied this knowledge."

Not too long later as the wreaths of steam drifted from the students' cauldrons, Snape was walking down the rows, barking directions at random students. He had just finished giving Neville a good yelling because, while powdering his roots, a burst of flame ignited near the burner of his cauldron, a great fireball that singed his sleeves because the discarded leaves of his supply of dittany had been left too close. A chorus of shrieks followed the appearance of the flame, as well as a long string of shouts including such phrases as "I _told _you lot to keep the foliage _away_ from the burners, you asinine idiot!" from the professor. After peace was restored and Snape continued his rounds about the desks, he gave Harry the loathing glare he saved just for him and criticized his potion for no particular reason at all. Then his cold black eyes fell upon a girl working alone in the back row, fingering the racemes of white flowers from her dittany sample as her potion simmered. He slowly approached the girl and she looked up at him. Snape suddenly stopped.

At first he wasn't able to process what he was seeing, but it slowly sank in and he stared at her in denying shock. She stared back at him in a polite and not really surprised gaze. Snape slowly, unbelievingly shook his head, furrowing his brow as though trying to see her better, and they both stared at each other in silence. As though Snape realized how dramatic and uncharacteristic his reaction was, he brought back his sneering glare.

"Who are you?" he demanded curtly.

"Rouge Magie, sir," Rouge replied as though she were answering a child's ignorant question, though still managed to keep her tone polite. She was starting to wonder how many times she would be asked this question and how many times she would force herself to politely answer it.

"_Magie_?" Snape repeated the name with a raised eyebrow as though it were a pointless joke.

"Yes, sir. I'm a new transf-"

Snape cut her short. "Just try to keep up with the rest of the class, Miss _Magie_." He kept his skeptical tone as he said her name.

"Yes, sir."

The rest of class went by miserably slow, finishing with Neville being given detention for the night. And to Snape's satisfaction, Neville gave no resistance, merely sat at his desk, whimpering at the thought of having to collect Bundimun secretion for Mr. Filch. And to the class's great pleasure the bell rang announcing the end of class. The class quickly packed up their things and hurried out of the dungeon, except for Rouge. She walked up to Snape's desk where he sat with his grade book, making sure Neville failed worse than usual.

Rouge waited for a moment then cleared her throat, but Snape made no acknowledgement of her presence.

"It's nice to see you again, Severus," Rouge said with no emotion in her tone or on her face. "Though you made quite a spectacle of yourself-" She paused to make sure no one else was in the dungeon, "-claiming your loyalty over the summer with the suspicions of treason about you. Very bold of you, indeed," she added with a faint smirk.

"Get to class, Rouge," Snape said without looking up, "and don't bother me with your petty comments."

Satisfied with Snape's annoyance, Rouge gave Snape one last smirk, turned with a swish of her robes, and exited the dungeon classroom.

Note to readers: Just one of those chapters that has no particular significance to the plot, but must be written just more the story along. I think I rushed this chapter a little too much. I need to work on that. Not quite the "last line" I wanted, but close enough. Hope y'all enjoyed it. I'll get started on chapter eight and nine, but I can guarantee they won't come out as quickly as this one did. So preoccupy yourself with some other reading material, such as any of the fanfics on the long list in my profile. And since you're all the way down here you might as well review! Thanks for reading!


	8. Summer Playmate

Disclaimer: I still own none of the Harry Potter material. Do you really think I do?!

Note to readers: I… am… so… tired… head droops and barely keeps from falling asleep on the keyboard You have no idea how much sleep I sacrificed for these stupid chapters (I'm allowed to call them stupid because I'm tired and they deprived me of MANY HOURS of sleep). Enjoy the three chapters while I get some sleep… Oh! And here are the thank yous, everyone got an award!!!:

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LittleMagie – You get the award for being the first reviewer of chapter seven AND you get the award from the most dramatic change in reviews. You're so nice in your reviews… I'm always getting paranoid about this fic and especially about Rouge. I'm always worried people will get bored with the plot or people won't like Rouge's character… But that's just me, so THANKS FOR THE REALLY NICE REVIEW!!! That pretty much sums it up…

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Ashley Malmstrom – Well, you get the award for the review that is closest thing I've ever gotten to a flame on this fic. I know my chapters are short… But that's why I released these three chapters at the same time. So I hope this segment of chapters is long enough for you… You also get an award for being the 42nd reviewer (I think). So be happy! Your review number is the answer to life, the universe, and everything! evil laughter BWAHAHAHA!!! SEE YOU IN THE MESSAGE BOARDS!!!

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Skade – Once again, you have given me a review that left me grinning like a madwoman for at least an hour. So that's what you get an award for. Thanks. You've always been so nice to me in reviews and always encouraged me to continue writing by pointing out the good things I write to the smallest detail. I just hope you'll get the next chapter of Rain out soon…cough

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CaptinNobody - YAAY! I was worried I wouldn't get a review from you, Cassie. But the thing about Chris… NO-OO!!! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO-OO!!! I wasn't talking about Stopher! I can't believe you think I still have an infatuation with him shudder. I have a friend at my new school named Chris (it's a common name…). So it's not what you think… You don't get a review for being too damn oblivious! HAHA!!! Just kidding, you get an award for being a first time reviewer so far along in the fic.

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Feather – Yes, you can whine. You get the whining award and the award for the review (e-mail actually) that has made me cry with happiness. But one thing I keep wondering; everyone keeps saying that they like Rouge… but why? I'm just not sure… Oh, well… I LOVED, ABSOLUTELY LOVED your new story! You're such a beautiful writer (have you noticed I always refer to your writing as 'beautiful'? has my point been made yet?) and you make me more happy than you could ever imagine by just stopping to read and review the things I write. Thanks.

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AMB3R – I forgot to thank you for reviewing all my writing in my last review of "Hermione's Crush" so I'll do it now: THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH!!! You get the award for reviewing everything ('cept my new short story, but I don't expect you to read that… it's… strange…). You're such a nice reviewer… I'm still not sure what ships will be in this fic. Probably by chapter 12 I'll have everyone who wants to participate in the pairings poll, e-mail me with their votes. I'm pretty sure I know what your main vote is (Hermione/Harry), but I'll still keep everyone updated on the poll… Thanks again!

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ChosMurderer – You get an award for a really cool pen name (death to Cho)! You get an award for having the reviews that scare me the most (especially the Snapiex48 review). AND you get an award for being the 47th-53rd reviewer (50 is in there somewhere…). Don't you feel so special?

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PotterGirl – Thankies for the nice review! I'm glad these chapters "just keep getting better and better" or I'm sure you readers wouldn't be happy with me… I hope you get the next chapter of your ficcy up soon! Oh, and you get an award for being the most constant reviewer.

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Mei Bridgens Ridle ) – You get an award for saying "HOLY QUAFFLE!" because I think that's funny. You get an award for being a wonderful artist and taking the time to draw Rouge ('tis so perddy!) and you get an award for being obsessed with Snape like millions of other HP fans, but still be very oblivious. Rouge and Sevvy know each other cause Sevvy's a Death Eater!!! COME ON! Thanks for the nice review!

Okay, now that that's out of the way, I've gotten 55 reviews and I love them all! Thank you so much everyone! Enjoy the three chapters!

Chapter 8: Summer Playmate

When Rouge emerged from behind the classroom door, someone stood there waiting for her in the empty dungeon hallway.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't _Rouge_," came Draco Malfoy's taunting drawl. "_Magie_, did you call yourself? Who do you think you're kidding? You saw Snape's face."

"Nice to see you too, _Draco_," Rouge snapped at him. "Now, why don't you go bother someone else and save me some time, energy, and a little sanity."

"Touchy, touchy. You should be a little softer towards me by now, Rouge. You did spend almost every night in August with me."

"You along with all the others. And you might want to be careful who you say that around, _Draco dearest_. You wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea about you and a _Gryffindor_. "

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Rouge. You know you shouldn't be in Gryffindor, with your father being who he is. He'll have it in for you when he finds out."

Rouge was thankful Draco remained vague in his talk about her father. Who knows who could have been listening beyond their line of sight? But Draco knew better than that. Being a Death Eater-in-training, like Rouge, he knew better than being careless and giving themselves away. But Rouge was still annoyed nonetheless, because she knew he was right.

"I don't care," Rouge said trying to sound braver than she felt, "and neither should he. It's just a stupid house. It doesn't change anything. What's he going to do about it?"

"You shouldn't talk about your father so lightly, Rouge. That bruise on your wrist should have taught you that."

Rouge instinctively tried to pull her sleeve farther down in attempt to hide the hideous bruise that her father had left on her wrist, but the damage had already been done. Draco had been there when it happened. Rouge had made the mistake of talking back during a meeting and it still surprised her, as much as the bruise still was painful, that her father hadn't crushed the bone beneath his grip. Rouge could have healed her wrist with any of a dozen different healing charms, but she left the bruise there. She left it to remind herself that her father would show no pity to her, family or not. She was never safe.

"Well, anyway," Draco continued with a satisfied smirk at the pained expression on Rouge's face, "I just received word from my father that another meeting is coming up. He suspects it'll be on Halloween."

"That's just like Father to tell Lucius about something before anyone else," Rouge muttered bitterly.

Draco beamed with pride. Rouge barely resisted the temptation to hex the grin off his face. But Rouge knew that wouldn't do any good, as amusing as it would be, so she kept an empty expression. It was her defense mechanism, hiding her emotions, because if she didn't she'd have probably been green with envy then, walking in the dimly lit dungeons with Draco. It sickened her that Lucius, even Draco, and just about every other Death Eater was more respected than she, daughter of You-Know-Who or not. She could never live up to her father's expectations. She was always a disappointment.

Rouge didn't want to be a Death Eater, unlike Draco. But she didn't like always being abused and the one to be a waste.

Why couldn't she be like Draco was?

Why couldn't she accept her fate?

Rouge watched Draco walk up the dungeon steps after a brief goodbye, pondering these questions.

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Why can't I accept it?

With the same regret she always felt when she came to the same conclusion she always did, she answered, "Because I'm not my father."

Note to readers: I know, I know… It's short… I didn't originally plan to write this, I just sat down and wrote it so… Here it is. Now… REVIEW!!!


	9. Prognostic Weather

Disclaimer: All usual disclaimers apply. Don't sue me.

Note to readers: There's not much to say about this chapter except that I did a terrible Trelawney and it took me FOREVER to do research on Tarot cards… I used a lot of foreshadowing in this chapter, so have some fun!

Chapter 9: Prognostic Weather

September passed in a fearful heartbeat and Rouge looked up expectantly into the October sky of the Great Hall every morning for the owl she had been dreading ever since Draco had informed her of the meeting to come. Rouge found herself performing this routine on the morning of October 31st. The sky was it's usual, depressing gray mass of thick clouds that threatened to rain. Rouge couldn't remember the last time the sky had been blue, if it had _ever_ been blue, and the cold, dry air tasted of coming winter.

In a rush of flapping feathers that soared through the long windows, owls fluttered through the hall looking for their owners. An eagle owl flew over to Draco and landed regally on his shoulder with his usual parcel of sweets from home. Rouge sneered at it with disgust.

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Draco always_ has to be such a show-off,_ Rouge thought with deep irritability and perhaps a bit of jealously. _He can never just keep to himself._

A snowy owl flew overhead and over to Harry with a simple note. Rouge absentmindedly watched Harry, Ron, and Hermione lean in close together to read it for a few moments before she saw Hermione turn around to glare at her, catching her watching them. Rouge looked away quickly.

She had noticed Hermione doing things like that recently. Not just recently, but ever since they'd met. Rouge doubted that they had spoken since, but Hermione would give her suspicious looks when they passed in the corridors or Hermione'd glare at her from behind textbooks during class. Rouge didn't have the faintest idea why. Not that she'd ever ask-

A note that dropped in front of her and on her empty plate brought Rouge out of her thoughts. She looked up to see a rather plain tawny owl perched on the milk jug before her. Rouge blinked at it then looked down at the note it had brought. She picked it up hesitantly, read it, flinched, read it again just to be sure, stared at it in disbelief, then set it down again with a sigh.

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So Draco wasn't lying, she thought miserably.

She stared down at the note, not reading it, but letting its elements sink in. Her eyes moved along the thin script, written in red ink, which Rouge was sure was blood. But it wasn't the content of the note that interested her. The signature was what held her attention, if you could call it a signature. At the bottom of the note, in vivid red, was the Dark Mark, You-Know-Who's signature in itself. The signature he branded his followers with. The signature he left wherever he caused death. Fear. Misery.

Rouge firmly shook herself.

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No, she thought, trying to hide her own fear from herself, _I can't think this way. Not with a meeting tonight._

She put the note in the pocket of her robes and looked up at the owl still perched on the milk jug. Rouge stared at it in search of some form of comfort, and the owl hooted softly which Rouge accepted gratefully as an owl's form of comfort. She stroked the owl affectionately and gave it a piece of toast, which it took just about as gratefully as Rouge took its comfort.

"_Apportez-moi quelques bonnes nouvelles la fois prochaine, n'est-ce pas?_" Rouge said fondly to the owl in almost a whisper as she smiled sadly at it, her forgotten French accent returning to her voice. The owl flew off without another thing said (hooted?).

"What does that mean?" said an icy voice from behind her.

Rouge snapped her head around to see Hermione standing behind her, and Rouge just managed to catch herself before she flinched. They stared at each other in silence before Rouge managed to choke out, trying to keep the most impassive expression and nonchalant tone as she could muster, "Just asking for some better news."

"Oh," Hermione said with mock interest, "all right then." And she turned sharply on her heels and walked briskly over to the doors of the Great Hall where Harry and Ron stood waiting for her. Harry let Ron and Hermione pass him before he exited the hall, which was just long enough for him to send Rouge a distrusting glance, but she didn't notice. She wasn't looking at him, but watched Hermione leave with a mixture of hate, confusion, and fear; which is quite an expression to see. It wasn't Hermione's question that bothered Rouge, but Hermione's grin. Her mocking, triumphant grin that crept to her face as she'd exited and left Rouge to wonder how long had she been standing there? How much did she know?

Rouge tried to shake off these worries and fears, but Rouge couldn't forget Hermione's triumphant grin.

The boiling and heavily perfumed, sickly sweet air in Professor Trelawney's classroom drowned Rouge in her thoughts. Even though it was late October, the stuffy classroom was terribly hot. The light was always dim, the windows always shut and curtains drawn tightly, and what little light there was had a red tint to it from the shawls and scarves draped over the lamps. The quiet, subdued atmosphere of quiet murmurs, lack of lighting, and insufferable heat always made Rouge sleepy. And in this sleepy atmosphere, her anxious, paranoid thoughts made her feel as though she was living a nightmare. She still couldn't erase Hermione's face from that morning, even though Hermione wasn't in the class, and Professor Trelawney's pitying glances didn't help much either, which was why she always hid in the back of the classroom. The back was Rouge's favorite spot in Divination class after the first day.

The first day of Divination came and Rouge had no idea what she was in for. She guessed that it couldn't be good by the annoyed mutterings from most of her classmates and the excited chattering of Parvati and Lavender, whose judgement she had quickly learned not to trust. From what she had heard, the professor had a habit of making unfortunate and incorrect predictions. That, as is commonly known, is the understatement of the century. Rouge had never truly liked Divination, and she doubted that a different school would change that.

When the class piled into the classroom in the North Tower, Professor Trelawney was sitting in her winged armchair in front of the blazing fire, her layers and layers of jewelry reflecting the tinted light, making her glitter and sparkle as though she herself were consumed by some metaphysical fire. Her eyes behind her magnifying eyeglasses closed, as though she was in a trance. The class sat on poufs and armchairs around tables, the wiser students taking seats in the back. Parvati and Lavender took seats closest to Professor Trelawney, their expressions filled with awe and great respect. Rouge took a seat at an empty table near the front since no one else seemed keen in sitting at it. The class's talk eventually died down and they patiently waited for some sign that Professor Trelawney would come out of her trance.

"I sense... _another_ among us..." Professor Trelawney said in her over-dramatic, airy-fairy voice without opening her eyes. Rouge rolled her eyes, buried her face in her hands, and sank into her armchair as though she could sink right through the stuffed cushion and disappear. Parvati and Lavender exchanged amazed and excited glances. The majority of the class wasn't paying attention.

"I'm sure you will be pleased to know..." Professor Trelawney continued, "that we will be studying Tarot cards for the next few weeks, but... we will have an unscheduled ending in late October... due to a thief that will steal the classes' sets of Tarot cards. So you'll brush up on your crystal ball gazing instead... when that time comes."

Rouge rolled her eyes again just because it seemed necessary. _This_ was the person that was suppose to teach them the great secrets of the diving arts? Parvati and Lavender once again exchanged amazed and excited glances, which they did many times throughout the class. The rest of the class still wasn't paying attention.

"I will need a volunteer for a demonstration of Tarot reading," Professor Trelawney said mistily, her eyes still closed. Lavender and Parvati were on the edge of their seats looking hopefully at Professor Trelawney with wide eyes. The rest of the class tried to make themselves invisible.

"Will the newcomer," Professor Trelawney began, suddenly and vaguely pointing at Rouge's general vicinity, which seemed to have the same effect as exact aim, nonetheless, "assist me?"

Lavender and Parvati sank back into their poufs with disappointment and threw envious glares at Rouge while the rest of the class breathed sighs of relief. Rouge looked up at Professor Trelawney, who had finally opened her eyes and was currently going through a nearby bookshelf, apparently looking for a deck of Tarot cards.

"I'd love to, Professor," Rouge said brightly, to which she got deserving glares from Parvati and Lavender.

"I do love a bright and helpful student," Professor Trelawney said whimsically, still facing the bookshelf. She couldn't see Rouge's placid yet life-hating expression that had accompanied her bright reply and rivaled Lavender and Parvati's murderous glares.

"Ah! Here we are," Professor Trelawney piped as she pulled a deck of elaborately decorated Tarot cards from the bookshelf and sat in the armchair across from Rouge at her empty table. Professor Trelawney shuffled the cards while she asked Rouge some simple questions along the lines of "What's your sign?" "How old are you and when's exactly is your birthday?" and, for reasons Rouge was sure had nothing to do with Tarot cards, "What is your name?" Rouge considered asking, "If you're the Divination professor, why must you ask these questions? Shouldn't you already know?" but Rouge kept her polite sort of smile as she answered Professor Trelawney's questions and said nothing else.

"Open your books to page 42," Professor Trelawney instructed, "and follow along with the card placement chart." There was the sound of rummaging papers through the perfumed, smoke-filled air as the class found and opened their books. Professor Trelawney finally stopped shuffling the card and she delicately placed one card in the middle of the table.

"The card in the middle of the chart," she explained, "represents the basic situation. In Ms. Magie's case it's The Fool. The Fool card could mean some sort of ...travel... or a streak of individuality. It can also symbolize someone who is... rather impulsive... but spends a lot of time by themselves."

Rouge guessed that this card represented herself. She did travel all over Europe over the summer, then to Hogwarts, and over the past two months she had been alone the entire time, mentally if not physically, though she wasn't sure about being "rather impulsive." She wasn't impulsive, was she?

Professor Trelawney then picked up another card and horizontally placed it over the first.

"The card on top of the middle card represents influences helping or hindering the situation," she said, choosing the next card. "For Miss Magie, it is The King of Swords. Kings are what represent the suits, either wands, swords, cups, or pentacles. The Kings mean a source, such as a father figure."

Rouge sighed quietly and looked away from the cards. It was clear that The King of Swords represented her own father. No more thought was needed on the subject.

Professor Trelawney went on. She became considerably dramatic when she came to the card that represented Rouge's future influences, The Devil. The Devil card means being tempted or having a desire that can bring you to your downfall. It can also mean being tricked or too materialistic. Rouge pretended to be surprised by this card as Professor Trelawney gave her a pitying look. Rouge thanked her own acting skills.

The card that puzzled Rouge the most in this reading was the card that represented energies coming to you from outside sources: The Moon – a warning to not fall prey to illusions and deceptions; a time of obscurity and bewilderment; a struggle with subconscious. This seemed to confuse Professor Trelawney as well, for it didn't say anything about Rouge being utterly doomed, but it was there, nonetheless.

It then became time for the tenth and final card. Professor Trelawney had become quite cheerful and excited through Rouge's, in a nutshell, unfortunate prediction, seeming to become more and more dramatic with every card. Rouge was in her climax of annoyance, and the rest of the class had lost attention six cards back. The final card represented the outcome, the true divination in this game of cards.

The card was The Tower.

Professor Trelawney heaved an exaggerated sigh, got up from Rouge's table, and fell back into her winged armchair in front of the fireplace with a glittering hand to her heart.

"Miss Brown?" she asked sorrowfully, closing her eyes again as she pointed a ringed finger at Lavender who jumped with surprise and snapped to attention. "Would you mind deciphering the meaning of The Tower card for the class? I cannot bring myself to…"

Lavender beamed and turned to the rest of the class, Rouge in particular.

"The Tower," Lavender began with a 'know-it-all' air, already sounding somewhat like Hermione, "generally means a great change; something cataclysmic. But... not as much a _change_, really... but more like a great catastrophe. "

Lavender looked directly at Rouge.

"Not too lucky, are you?" she gibed with a smirk.

To Rouge's great pleasure, the class moved on from Tarot cards and started _Advanced_ Crystal Ball Gazing, when someone did, in fact, steal all the classes Tarot cards. It was rumored that Professor Trelawney had stolen the cards herself just to make her prediction true. But the class moved on to _Advanced_ Crystal Ball Gazing nonetheless, which didn't seem any different from _Regular Ol' Run-Of-The-Mill_ Crystal Ball Gazing: Staring into a glass-like ball at a whole lot of swirling, misty smoke.

Rouge tapped her crystal ball with her fingernail and it made a complaining '_tink'_ sound. Rouge snorted.

__

A glass crystal ball, she thought without surprise_. We never had _glass_ scrying crystal balls at Beauxbatons._

Rouge remembered what the crystal balls at Beauxbatons were like. They were always made of glimmering, pure crystal, and none of this _glass_. They had a mysterious shimmer of sliver-gray in the crystal, as though divine fire had been melded into them. And if you gave them the slightest tap, they would chime like a chorus of church bells. They were beautiful, and far more accurate.

Rouge sighed. She couldn't deny that she missed Beauxbatons, but nothing could be done about it. She'd never go back. So easily had she shed her beautiful robes of blue, but the pain of leaving them behind was not so easily discarded.

She turned her attention back to her ball. She hadn't gotten any further than predicting the weather. She'd see swirling gray rain clouds, which was no challenge to predict since the ball was like that naturally. But today, in Rouge's paranoid state-of-mind, the crystal ball said more than the weather. Rouge stared absentmindedly at her ball as though she were focusing on her Inner Eye instead of her worries, but as she stared something peculiar happened to the interior of the ball.

The misty gray smoke slowly turned scarlet until it remarkably resembled a remembrall of a forgetful owner. But as Rouge's interest surrounded the ball the smoke turned to a deeper and darker shade. She peered closely at the ball and she noticed that the red substance in the ball no longer seemed like smoke. It dripped slowly along the sides of the ball, but Rouge couldn't put her finger on what it was.

She leaned closer to it and furrowed her brow in thought. A few loose strands of her blood red hair fell in front of her eyes. The hair color immediately blended with the color of the liquid in the ball. Rouge's eyes went wide, her pupils turning to pinpoints in the light of revelation.

Blood. The crystal ball was filled with blood.

Fear ran through her veins like ice, but she couldn't break her stare on the ball.

The ball started to shake and rattle, and Rouge could have sworn it was twitching. It shuddered and jerked more and more violently until she was sure someone would notice. She clapped her hands to the ball in attempt to stop its movement and a sudden sharp pain ran through her hands coming from the ball. She barely kept herself from screaming out in pain. Her hands began to shake. The very bones in her hands were on fire. Rouge's eyes began to water from the pain and she tore her hands off the ball. She held her hands close to her chest, cradling them.

She knew that pain. She had seen it before. She had _felt_ it before.

It was the Cruciatus Curse.

Rouge's Inner Eye blinked and she slowly leaned back in her armchair. The ball went back to its normal weather-predicting state and she sank into the chintz armchair around her solitary table, still cradling her hands, her eyes wide with terror.

Blood and the Cruciatus Cruse.

This was definitely not a harbinger of happy tidings.

Note to readers: A QUEST!!! ON TO THE NEXT CHAPTER!!! Sorry, I like Sir Cadogan and I'm sorry I couldn't put him in this chapter… I guess I should have… Oh, well. Please review!


	10. Father of Mine

Disclaimer: I don't own anything HP that belongs to J.K. and I don't own the song "Father of Mine" by Everclear. But all characters of my own creation are, in fact, mine.

Note to readers: Okay, this is my first, pitiful attempt at a songfic. I would have used it in chapter one, but I didn't think of it then. I'm rewriting chapter one anyway, so everything's messed up and I don't want to fix it! I'm gonna rewrite chapter one… later… I'll keep you updated on that… Back to the songfic; I took out some of the verses that didn't fit well, so if you know the song "Father of Mine" by Everclear don't get mad at me. I put the lyrics in the center of the page in Italics. Enjoy!

Chapter 10: Father of Mine

Father of mine

tell me where have you been

you know I just closed my eyes

my whole world disappeared

Night was falling over the Hogwarts grounds, slowly cloaking the vast stretches of land in a shroud of purple and black darkness stippled with white stars, as though the cloak of night were back-lit and stabbed, letting the faint and distant starlight shine through the tiny wounds. The setting sun lay low in the sky, giving off a glint of deep red and orange light on the horizon. Rouge watched it from the window in her darkened dormitory, her fingertips pressed to the glass. The dormitory was empty, as well as the common room. Everyone was already at the Halloween feast, but Rouge stayed behind just as the note from that morning instructed her.

Rouge felt a sudden stab of pain at her left forearm. She rolled up the left sleeve of her robes to just above her elbow and there, the now jet-black brand upon her pale skin, was the Dark Mark. Nearly all of last year, she had watched the scarlet mark slowly appear like a countdown, unknowing of what it could have possibly meant.

But now, Master calls.

Rouge looked out the window again. Then sun's red light shone at the edges of the forbidden forest as though it were engulfed in flames, the fire licking at the purple cloak of the night. In the dim light, squinting hard, she could make out the images of cloaked figures creeping stealthily up the path from Hogsmede, and she knew that one wouldn't be able to see them, unless one knew that they were there. They couldn't be students; everyone was at the feast, which was why the meeting was tonight. No one would be on the grounds. No one would suspect that the Death Eaters would be meeting in the forbidden forest.

Rouge pulled her cloak out of her trunk and draped it over her shoulders as she walked out of the dormitory.

Father of mine

take me back to the day

when I was still your golden boy

back before you went away

One of oak front doors closing with careful silence behind her, Rouge breathed in the night air from beneath the hood of her cloak. It was sharp and cold and fresh in her lungs, reviving her under the puncture-wound stars. Keeping her hood pulled down over her face, though the cover of the black night around her was disguise enough, she made her way not down the path to the grounds, but along the stone walkway to one of the sides of the school's front entrance. She took this route for one reason: Draco.

That afternoon, in the main corridor during a particularly bad crowd of traffic, she walked past a crowd of Slytherins, Draco among them, going in the opposite direction. But the crowd was so dense that, as she walked by, shoulders were brushed. Draco didn't look at Rouge as she passed, but she could distinctly hear him whisper, audible only by their proximity over the din of chatter, "Archway of the outer courtyard at the call." Their gazes didn't meet, they didn't even stop walking for a moment, but Rouge had gotten the message and understood, and here she was.

The stone archway was cut into a solid stone wall that supported an outside walkway on a higher floor and led to the outer-most courtyard in the school. It was a few yards away from where Rouge was walking, but she stopped there and waited. She watched the seemingly empty archway, the light of the single torch in the archway flickering as the flame danced, but she saw no one there, nothing at all. Was she early? Was Draco late? Or was this all some stupid joke of Draco's-? Her list of possible explanations was interrupted as the flickering light died abruptly. The flame in the torch in the archway had suddenly gone out, throwing the whole area into complete darkness. Instinctively, Rouge knew that it was Draco, and she quickly resumed her pace.

And there, indeed, was Draco, clad, like Rouge, in a heavy black cloak and was leaning casually and, in Rouge's opinion, all too calmly against the wall of the archway beside the smouldering torch, the delicate wisps of smoke emitting from the blackened embers framing his hooded head. By the starlight, she saw him fingering his mask in his pale hands as she approached, Rouge's own mask still within the folds of her cloak. He looked up at her, his lips parted to speak, but she immediately held up a hand to silence him, looking over her shoulder, and he laughed at her.

"Honestly, Rouge, do you really think anyone is following us?" he asked, his voice taunting with his laughter, but he still kept his voice only just above a whisper.

"Is anyone else coming?" she asked, ignoring his taunt, her voice just as quiet.

"No, it's just us. We're the only students, you know, but of course that's going to change... and Snape left for the forest earlier."

Rouge nodded and beckoned him forth, finding this no time for pleasantries and conversation, and Draco got the gist and complied. As they walked down the stone walkway heading this time towards the path to the grounds, Rouge caught a glimpse of the windows of the Great Hall. Warm orange light streaming through the gothic cathedral stylized windows, she could see a cloud of fluttering blackness near the ceiling, which she recognized after a moment as a horde of live bats. Light reflecting off the golden plates could be seen even from outside as it shone it circles of light against the walls, and giant floating Jack-O-Lanterns grinned at the pair of cloaked Death Eaters as they passed.

It was even darker by the time the pair had found the correct path in the forest, but they didn't dare use Lumos for a bit of light, despite Draco's insufferable calmness and confidence of their inability to be caught. Rouge could tell Draco was afraid of being here in this forest, though he hid it well. They both jumped at the smallest of noises and warily eyed the shadows that lurked in the darkness all around them. Even the trees and foliage looking sinister this Halloween night, branches looming out like skeletal arms. Rouge didn't see why she should be frightened, but she was nonetheless, by the nightmarish atmosphere, if nothing else, but there was something else. Not of the creatures that dwelled in the forest that scared Draco, for she didn't know of them, but she was afraid of what they were walking towards.

A twig snapped somewhere behind them, breaking the silence like one breaks a pane of glass with an anvil. Draco grabbed Rouge's arm and pulled her sharply into the shadow of a great oak tree just to the side of the path. A chestnut centaur suddenly leapt onto the path they had been walking on and it stared around fiercely, eyes narrowed. Draco and Rouge stood ridged with fear, rooted to the spot. Both of Draco's hands were now on Rouge's arms, holding her firmly in the shadow, close to him. They could hear the centaur crunch leaves beneath its hooves. Rouge could feel Draco's trembling, uneven breaths against her skin, for their faces were only an inch at most apart. Rouge shut her eyes out of fear and kept them tightly closed.

__

Please, let it leave, Rouge's thoughts pleaded. _Please, don't let it find us._

They could hear the centaur move around the path, coming closer, until it was on the other side of the oak tree. Rouge suddenly realized that Draco was still holding her as he suddenly and silently pulled her even closer. Even though it was only for hiding purposes Rouge got an odd sensation from their physical propinquity.

Father of mine

tell me where did you go

you had the world inside your hand

but you did not seem to know

Something stirred down the path from the way they had been walking. The centaur snapped its head around in that direction and bounded down the path toward the source of the sound, but Rouge and Draco didn't move, both still too scared to move. They waited in fearful silence for another minute or so to see if the centaur came back, but they were alone once again. They continued to stand perfectly still, their physical proximity still intense, but then they seemed to suddenly return to their proper senses. Draco let go of Rouge's arms and her eyes snapped open as they stumbled away from each other a face paces in opposite directions as though each other's touch was painful. Draco hurriedly walked back onto the path and Rouge followed.

For a moment, Draco looked back at her, and Rouge held his gaze – their gazes held each other. They stared without a saying anything, seeming unable to say anything, for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, time paused by the stillness. There must have been over a yard of pace between them, then, but there was _something_ there between them, something that had held them bound when they stood so closely together in that shadow, and was stretching between them now, fibers pulled thin. But Draco turned his gaze with a shake of his head, and Rouge joined him on the path.

They resumed walking in silence. They walked for longer than Rouge could guess and they didn't talk – partly due to the worry of meeting another creature, possibly something worse than a centaur. They made a few turns going deeper into the center of the forest, but kept as close to the path as possible. After what seemed like ages of walking, Draco suddenly stopped, grabbing Rouge's arm again. She stopped and looked back at his hooded face, and he pointed to a flicker of light in the distance that could faintly be seen in the darkness of the forest between the branches of the countless numbers of trees. Rouge nodded and they resumed walking, this time toward the light.

They reached a large clearing in the woods, possibly the nest of some giant animal or pack of animals at one point, but seemed oddly deserted of any life suited for such surroundings, as though everything had been chased away, or stripped barren by disease. They must have been miles into the forest; the glowing moon no longer visible above the tops of the looming shadowed trees. The flickering light they had seen in the distance seemed to be all around them, still faint, but coming from no visible source. They walked nervously over to the circle of cloaked and masked figures that waited for them in the middle of the clearing.

Keeping their heads bowed, the two cloaked youths approached the tallest of figures in the circle. Skeletally thin he stood, his wide and vividly scarlet eyes staring down at them. The catlike slits of his eyes were focused on Draco as he fell to his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robes, the routine Death Eater's greeting to their master. Rouge did not perform this greeting, earning her a few well-deserved glares from nearby Death Eaters, but Voldemort didn't seem to notice. Draco found his place in the circle beside his father and Rouge found her place beside hers in his shadow.

Father of mine

tell me what do you see

when you look back at your wasted life

and you don't see me

Everyone was there. Wormtail, Avery, Lucius Malfoy, Macnair, Nott, Mulciber, even Snape, and not a single one was absent except the traitors and those still held in Azkaban. The tension in the circle was so thick you could have cut it with a knife as the members of the circle waited for the Dark Lord to begin his speech, which was by now customary at the beginning of every meeting.

"Tonight is Halloween," Voldemort stated calmly, looking around the circle. "Exactly fourteen years ago I killed the Potters. It has been fourteen years since I tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry, and he became famous. It has been fourteen years since I was defeated by my own rebounded curse, and fourteen years it took me to fully recover my strength and power." There was a nervous stir among the circle. Voldemort noticed. It was what he wanted.

"Many said I had died," Voldemort continued, "but those who were wise knew better. They didn't think I was human enough to die. In some respects, I believe they are correct, but I always have been human enough to produce an heir."

Rouge felt one of Voldemort's pale, spider-like hands slip onto her shoulder. She could feel its cold touch through her cloak and she fought not to shudder, and even more difficult, not to flinch. Another stir went through the circle, an unidentified and disturbed stir that evaded Voldemort's notice.

"How many years have we kept away from Hogwarts?" he asked sharply and bitterly. "We were afraid to overcome it because of that blundering, old, mudblood-loving fool, Dumbledore. We never attacked, never even tried." Voldemort glared at the figures in the circle, as though it was their fault and not his own. "We'll attack this year, from inside. From the most inconspicuous house." Rouge felt Voldemort's grip on her shoulder tighten painfully as he mentioned her house. "And from the most inconspicuous person. We have three Death Eaters in Hogwarts, but one in Gryffindor. I have waited longer than fourteen years for this, and I shall not wait any longer."

Rouge looked up and across the circle at Wormtail. He looked nervous and scared, which was nothing new. He had told Rouge of the events at the Tri Wizard Tournament, of the plan they had, and how it all went wrong.

__

Crouch had been their spy in Hogwarts, Rouge thought as her anger began to rise, _and look what it got him. A kiss from a dementor._

Rouge clenched her fists. She wasn't about to be used like Crouch without a fight. She wouldn't be a waste, a story of failure to tell. She wouldn't be a pawn in her father's scheme just waiting to be taken.

So Rouge made her move.

She snorted, as though amused. Everyone turned their cloaked heads to look at her, even Voldemort himself. Rouge gave him a sideways look, which many Death Eaters gawked at, but Rouge didn't stop there.

Father of mine

tell me where have you been

I just closed my eyes

and the world disappeared

"What makes you think it'll work this time?" Rouge said with such sneering amusement that many Death Eaters moved on to looks of amazement and some of loyal disgust and horror. "Your failure last year should have taught you something."

At this, the Death Eaters weren't sure what to think, because it was so unexpected and unbelievable that _anyone_ would talk to the Dark Lord about _his_ failure. She might as well be digging her own grave, but it was game whether or not there would be much left to put in the grave after he's done with her.

Everyone's attention turned to Voldemort, and to more amazement, he, too, looked amused.

"It's no wonder you're in Gryffindor," Voldemort said lazily, addressing Rouge, and for a moment she thought nothing would happen and she'd get off scott-free, or more appropriately, curse-free. But with a quick movement of Voldemort's hand, Rouge was on the ground. It happened so fast that it took her a moment to realize what happened and to register the searing pain in her cheek and shoulder.

Voldemort had slapped her across the face, knocking her down, and she had fell on something hard like a sharp rock. As she lay – a frightened huddled mass on the ground – she touched her shoulder, which throbbed with pain. She winced at just the light pressure of her fingertips, and she drew back her hand. Blood coated her fingertips and the shoulder of her cloak was soaked with it. Rouge whimpered. She knew there was more to come.

Father of mine

tell me how do you sleep

with the children you abandoned

and the wife I saw you beat

"Oh, come now, Rouge. It's only a little blood," Voldemort taunted with a high-pitched laugh. Rouge looked up at his silhouette in the source-less light. He was bent over, casting a shadow over her like the shadow of death. His hand was stretched out and he was wrapping strands of her bloodred hair around a long, pale finger. His scarlet eyes laughed at her. They laughed as though amused by the fact that he had put the blood in her blonde hair and the blood on her robes.

He stood up and Rouge felt something slither by her feet. It moved quickly along the length of her body and wrapped itself loosely around her neck. Rouge hissed angrily at Nagini, who hissed back.

__

"Not yet, Nagini," Rouge heard Voldemort hiss, _"not yet. My dearest daughter still has a yet part to play. We cannot waste such a servant that can get so close to Harry Potter."_

Nagini hissed and slithered away to her master's feet. Rouge knew exactly what was going to happen next, but she had no way to prepare for it. She saw Voldemort raise his wand, pointing it toward Rouge. She heard him, Lord Voldemort, her own father mutter, _"Crucio!"_

Then he walked away

daddy gave me a name

then he walked away

my dad he gave me a name

Pain.

That's all she could feel. Pain worse than any pain she had ever felt, worse than the glimpse she had gotten that afternoon. Pain ran through every inch of her body and she prayed for it to end. She _wanted_ to die. Through her violent twitching she looked up at the cloaked figures around her. Some laughed, but none moved, none lifted a finger to help her. Her eyes watered with the pain, tears running freely down her cheeks, and she could barely make out Draco's figure in the circle. She pleaded to him as she writhed, "help..." but her voice was barely a whisper as she dug her nails in the ground in attempt to steady her shuddering. Draco grinned at her. She could distinctly tell it was a grin, even through her tears. And she saw him mouth the words, '_Now why would I help a Gryffindor?_' and his grin broadened.

Hope failed her as well as her thoughts. She gave up all attempts to block out the pain, and she screamed. The bloodcurdling scream that emitted from her pierced the very night – another puncture-wound star. She screamed, hoping someone would hear, someone, anyone would come, and someone would make it stop.

But no one made it stop until Voldemort raised his wand. No one came. No one even heard.

For no one hears a shadow.

__

Then he walked away

Note to readers: And so the plot thickens… I hope y'all like it! I'm gonna take a bit of a break from writing this to sort out my thoughts of what happens next and to write some other fics (mostly songfics that have been playing loudly in my head). So thanks for reading and please review!


	11. Quidditch is Not the Only Game

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I own nothing of the Harry Potter characters and whatnot.

Note to readers: Here's chapter eleven. Not much to be proud of, but it's here, nonetheless. Chapter twelve will be out soon, so have a little patient. This chapter is basically introducing things to come… So have fun, kids! Remember, no ships have been decided yet, so don't get your hopes up… Oh, and some people have asked me: "Whatever happened the DADA professor?" Well, she's still here and will remake her entrance soon. Now with that out of the way, here are my usual, personal thank yous:

To **Feather** – YAY! You were finally a first reviewer! Once again, I must comment on how much I love your reviews. You leave long, good, and touching reviews. The one-word and same wordx48 reviews aren't as pleasing… Everyone likes Rouge so much, but I'm worried they won't like her later because of her period of evilness. Oh, well… The fic must go on, which I'm sure you're pleased about. Sorry, I can't help you with the dolt brother. For I have no dolt brother, sister, or any siblings at that! Just little ol' Hayley…

To **LittleMaggie** – Thank you so much for reviewing all three chapters, for you were one of the few that did. You, my _faithful_ reader, would never miss out on three whole chapters. If you missed just one, I'd be e-mailing you to no end, yelling "WHERE'S MY REVIEWS!!!" and so on… I agree. Mary-Sue is evil, blood sucking, and stupid. But don't compare me to J.K.! I AM NOT WORHTY!!! Uh… sorry. And I devote myself to writing because, basically, I have no life! bows Yep, No life for me. The internet (meaning you guys), Harry Potter, and writing is all the life I have. "The owl flew away without another thing said (hooted?)" I, too, am rather fond of that… And you're not the only one who's hyper! I had a venti mocha frappachino with a shot of raspberry from Starbucks while writing this! WOOHOO!!! CAFFEINE!!! I'm sorry to say there won't be a "friendship" between Hermione and Rouge, but later they will see each other in different lights. I did SOOO much research on Tarot cards! I had an entire reading set up for Rouge, but not all of it made sense, and it was a bit too long and repetitive, so I narrowed it down to the important stuff. I _might_ add more flashbacks later on, but I haven't decided on any yet… I really like Everclear ("Father of Mine" belongs to them)… They're really good. You should check 'em out! Draco won't be "mean" through all of this, just a little cold. I see him as a good guy, sometimes, but I just don't want to stray too far off his character. I've abused my privileges for out-of-character-ness with Harry and Hermione, as it is. Oh, well… Thank you for saving my sanity with long reviews and being a faithful reader!

To **Ashley Malmstrom** – Questions of Ron shall be answered eventually. Have patients… Draco's not too nice is he? Wonder where I got that idea?… Valgaav _couldn't_ have had anything to do with _that_… Just kidding, I love ya Valgaav! I hope this chapter will keep Mr. Vipertooth away, at least for awhile… See you in the message boards!… maybe…

To **Kiota** – Born to be a writer, eh? Haven't heard that one yet… jots it down in her compliments notebook Here are the answers to your questions:

_Who is her father?_

gapes at the question for a few minutes, shakes herself violently, then forces herself to answer Rouge's father is Voldemort! bellows VOLDEMORT!!! DO YOU HEAR THAT EVERYONE?! HER FATHER IS VOLDEMORT!!! stops suddenly Uh… sorry… Got a little carried away there…

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What is happening with Snape? Didn't he LEAVE the death eaters? Okay, he came back, but why? And wouldn't Voldemort kill him?

These are very good questions, I do admit. What is happening with Snape is that he's once again become a spy against Voldemort. Remember the ending of book four? They hinted around with that… Yes, he left the Death Eaters, but that doesn't mean he won't return as a spy. He came back to be a spy. Under normal circumstances, yes, Voldemort would kill him. But let's leave the _why_ he hasn't killed him for later chapters…

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What was Proffesor Trelaway's reaction to Rouge's crystal ball?

As far as we know, nothing. As far as we know, she was off predicting someone else's doom. But that doesn't mean I can't do something with it later… I might… but nothing at the moment.

__

What's between Draco and Rouge?

At the moment, nothing. That's up for _you_ (as in all you readers) to decide. I'll have a poll later so _you_ can decide if anything shall be between them… But at the moment, the only thing between them is their loathing for each other, and that they're both Death Eaters.

__

Where are the message boards?

The message boards are at under the chat section. I'm always in the roleplay section…

I happen to LIKE Everclear… I know I messed up the song a bit, but oh well… Here's your chapter…

To **AMB3R** - pleads for forgiveness I tried to tell you I posted the chapters! I really did! But my precious laptop wouldn't let me review for awhile and I don't know why! But I can review now, and all is good. Your short review is forgiven because I know how much school stinks. And all your questions about how much Hermione know shall be answered soon… Probably in the next chapter…

To **Skade** – WHY MUST EVERYONE COMPARE ME TO J.K.?! I AM NOT WORTHY!!! But thanks for the review, anyway. Once again, you left be grinning like a madwoman for at least an hour… bows at Sharon's clapping, but trips, and falls flat on her face Ow…

To **Draco Malfoy (Valgaavsan) ****)** – Ah… you read it… shuffles feat in an embarrassed sort of way Well, thanks for the great review. You've always been really nice to me, even about RPG. Sometimes I doubt I deserve it… especially from you. I'd love to RP Gundam with you! But I warn you; I'm terrible at it! Really, really terrible… Well, see you in the message boards!… No, I shouldn't say that anymore. I never go to the message boards anymore. Oh, well… Ja ne, Jason-chan!

To **CaptinIHaveAHeadache** – I like the name. Yes, it _has_ been awhile since you've reviewed. No, I haven't left Yes, the server is probably down again. I've read "Things Harry Potter Characters Would Never Say" and reviewed it. Good job. WHADDA YA MEAN YOU CAN'T GO ON NEOPETS ANYMORE?! FIRST, YOU LEAVING NEOPETS, NOW JACKIE AND HER STUPID EXCUSE FOR A REVIEW!!! YOU ALL ARE TRYING TO TORTURE ME!!!

To **PotterGirl** – grumbles 'bout time you read the new chapters… Computers stink. I hurried and I wrote more. Is it worth a rushed chapter? No. But that's the price to pay for no patience.

To **CloudChick** – Okay, I must admit that the "kewlies!" review scared me. Really. A lot. But thanks for the reviews, anyway. And about Rouge's quality not wanting to be her like her father- stops suddenly with a sigh oh, you'll all find out soon enough… On a lighter note: any new chapters of your fic out? I really like it… you need to write more…

To **jmr** – I don't know why I'm writing a reply to this, Jackie. I know you won't read it, but I want to say it anyway. Your review hurt me. A lot. More than any flame ever could, especially since it was from you. You just couldn't walk away without saying something like that, could you? I just want you to know how I feel about it…

To **WaterLynx** – Thanks for the "flames", MGD! blinks and stares at her thanks for flames Okaaaaaaay… I know Harry and Hermi are badly out of character, but do you really expect _me_ to do a good job with that? I'm no J.K…. I know Ron's pretty weak at the moment, but he'll play more of a part later on… Just have patients. As for Snape, he's a spy for Dumbledore again, and not _really _back with the Death Eaters. I'm just going with what I think will happen in book five. And Draco's problem? Well… he's… Draco. He's a stupid schmuch and there's nothing more too it. But… you… chokes _like_… the whole child of Voldemort thing? Uh… MGD? You don't read enough fanfics. "Heir of Voldie" fics have been done a million times and this is just about the most unoriginal thing ever thought of. But I'm glad you like it anyway! Thanks for reading!

I've gotten 74 reviews so far, but I can't say I love them all anymore, because I don't. And you can blame 'jmr' for that points accusingly at 'jmr' BLAME HER!!! But I love about 73 of them! And I'd really like some more! So read, review, and have some fun!

Chapter 11: Quidditch is Not the Only Game

Rouge moaned with the pain (pain-hangover, really) as she awoke the following morning. Birds chirped sweetly from somewhere nearby and she swore at their blasted noise. She was horrified to discover that the Cruciatus Curse hadn't killed her. She ached terribly and thought she'd have been better off if the curse _had_ killed her. Light poured through her eyelids and she realized that she hadn't opened them yet. So she opened her eyes and immediately blinked with surprise and bewilderment. The last thing she remembered from the previous night was passing out during her torture, lying in the dirt. But now she was lying in her four-poster bed in the fifth year girls' dormitory, which seemed to be quite an improvement from the dirt. She strained her memory for an explanation of how she had gotten back to her dormitory, but all she found was that straining her mind hurt as well.

She figured Wormtail had brought her back up, and Severus had probably given him the password, but Rouge's thoughts lingered on Wormtail. She actually wasn't sure what his real name was, but she sure it wasn't "Wormtail".

__

It's Peter... something, Rouge thought with a shrug.

Her father always referred to him as "Wormtail", and Wormtail seemed to have no complaint on the matter. He was at almost every meeting, so he and Rouge saw quite a lot of each other. He'd spend time with her, though they had little in common, except how they were viewed by Voldemort, but they had almost nothing in common personality-wise. Wormtail was a lying, back-stabbing, murdering scumbag to his old friends and a frightened, worthless, and disloyal follower to his master, but, hey, company is company. He pitied Rouge and comforted her after her torturing and beatings, healing her wounds and such. He'd show her his gleaming silver hand and give her the same speech on such occasions.

"Be more loyal to the Dark Lord. He rewards his faithful servants," he said as he admired his silver hand, each curve catching the moonlight, making it shine as though it radiated power. "And besides, Rouge, is it really worth the scars and bruises to refuse?"

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No, she thought, listening to the birds, _it's not._

Rouge turned onto her other side beneath her blankets and she noticed she was still wearing her watch. It was a very nice watch, a little scratched here and there, but still a very nice watch all the same. It had a pearly white face surrounded by a glinting gold frame on a perfectly fitting onyx band. Beautifully colored planets moved along the edge of the face. She would have enjoyed it a considerable amount more if she didn't have the unfortunate habit of checking the time at the times she later wished she didn't know the time.

This was one of those times.

With a wave of nausea, she realized she was late for Transfiguration.

Rouge sprinted down the corridor, still partially pulling on her robes with one hand and her bag in the other, swinging from side to side as she ran. She skidded to a halt in front of the classroom door, wondering why she hadn't simply skipped this class and stayed in bed until the next. Or she could have said she was sick, for she definitely felt it. Being late would draw more attention to herself than just skipping the first class of the day. And to top it all off, trying to get away with being late in McGonagall's class is a suicide mission. But Rouge had a duty to her Transfiguration grade, so a silently as she could, after having a raging, inner battle with herself, she opened the door. She crept as quickly and quietly as she could towards a desk in the back, but was stopped about half way.

"Miss Magie!" Professor McGonagall barked as she turned away from the board upon Rouge's entrance. "You are almost _twenty_ minutes late, and I do not tolerate tardiness in my class."

"Sorry, Professor," Rouge muttered, looking down at her feet. "I-"

"I don't want any excuses, just take your seat, and fifteen points from Gryffindor."

Rouge flinched and nodded, too afraid to say any more because of the annoyed glares from her fellow Gryffindors and Professor McGonagall, two of the few gazes she felt as though she could die under. She took her seat. She could distinguish Hermione's face from the others, for she glared in a disapproving sort of way, but seemed to have a hint of knowing behind her brown eyes, which Rouge found extremely unnerving. She had the firm belief that Hermione knew too many things, whatever they were.

"As I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted by Miss Magie," Professor McGonagall said, as though she wanted Rouge to specifically hear her censure along with the rest of the class, which was quite effective and made Rouge wish she could sink into the floor. "I thought we'd have a bit of _fun_ today to mark the beginning of the Quidditch season."

But at these words, Rouge's heart leapt. She, like so many other wizard children, was a Quidditch fan, but she had almost forgotten about it over the summer and here at Hogwarts. It hadn't really seemed important, with everything else in her life. She was beginning to doubt Hogwarts had Quidditch teams at all since no announcements had been made, until now, and this was a great relief.

"Each of you will be turning a muggle football – or as know by you few Americans, a _soccer_ ball – into a Quaffle," Professor McGonagall instructed. "It's just a simple change in size, color, and surface texture. It shouldn't take too long."

Rouge then noticed the spherical, black-and-white-colored ball sitting on her desk. She stared at it in astonishment, for she had never seen a football before; she was raised by her pureblood witch mother who didn't bother with 'muggle nonsense' – muggle things just weren't important. And football wasn't nearly as popular in France as it was in England, especially in the wizarding community. But her gawking at the ball was nothing compared to Ron Weasley's. Rouge distinctly heard him mutter to Harry only a few seats away, "You mean muggles _play a sport_ with these? Weird..." and she heard Harry chuckle.

"But before you begin, I have a few announcements," Professor McGonagall continued, a little too late for Hermione since her football was already scarlet and the circle imprints on her ball were almost completely gone. "The try-outs for the Gryffindor Quidditch team are this evening at six o'clock, as I'm sure you've all seen on the common room notice board. Yes, I know it's a little late, with try-outs usually on the second week of school, but there was some debates on whether or not there would be Quidditch this year at all. The staff decided to allow it, and so the season is starting now, albeit rather late. Only the keeper position is available, so if you are qualified for that position, I encourage you to try out. If you have any further questions, see Madame Hooch."

There was a faint gasp from the class and many students looked around at each other in excitement. A place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team hadn't been available for almost five years. Ron threw a look at Harry that clearly, more or less, said 'I'VE GOT TO TRY OUT!' and Harry returned it with an encouraging smile. Even Rouge looked content with her luck. She felt as though she needed a happier change, and a spot on the Quidditch team would be particularly welcome.

Professor McGonagall waited patiently for the class's excited whispers and cheers to die down before she continued, starting to wish she had saved the announcements for _after_ class.

"And after much debate among the staff, we have decided to bring back by much popular demand…" Professor McGonagall paused, stretching the anticipation before... "The Yule Ball." Professor McGonagall waited as though for a response before continuing, "The same conditions as last year apply. Dress robes will be worn, the ball will only be open to fourth years and above, though you may invite a younger student if you wish." Professor McGonagall waited again for a response, but still nothing came. "And the ball will begin at eight o'clock on Christmas day and will end promptly at midnight in the Great Hall."

For a few moments there was complete silence at the shock of this news. Then, simultaneously, almost all the boys in the class sighed miserably at the thought of having to go through the humiliation of asking a girl to be his dance partner, _all over again_. Several heads hit their desks. And almost all the girls began to giggle uncontrollably at the thought of having another ball to obsess over _all over again_. Lavender and Parvati were beginning to turn bright shades of pink that have most likely had never been achieved before in face color. Without a doubt, those two girls were almost entirely responsible for this when it comes to 'popular demand'.

Next to the majority, it seemed that only one girl wasn't giggling. Rouge was staring, quite calmly and almost intently, at a boy only a few seats down. As though trying to put pieces of a puzzle together in her head, she stared at Harry Potter.

The rest of class went by with talk of nothing else but Quidditch and the ball with severe mixed emotions. Most of the boys talked only about their excitement of Quidditch's return as if not to think about the ball and to leave it to think about later. Most of the girls only talked about the ball, because quite frankly, they didn't care about Quidditch with such a topic as a ball on their minds. In any case, most of the footballs were forgotten (except for Hermione's, of course, as it had been turned into a perfect Quaffle fifteen minutes into class).

When the bell finally rang, the class packed up and left, still talking animatedly without a change of subjects. Lavender could be heard chatting enthusiastically with Parvati as she walked out of the classroom ("Oh my god, Parvati! I _need_ to get new dress robes! Isn't there a robe shop in Hogsmede? Gladrags Wizardwear, right?") But just as Harry reached the door, Professor McGonagall called for him, "Potter? May I have a word with you?"

Harry felt a sudden sensation of déjà vu and slowly walked up to her desk as he tried to remember what he was feeling déjà vu from. Professor McGonagall looked extremely serious, which was not much of a surprise, but something to note on. She leaned forward over her desk as Harry approached, looking confused.

"Potter, the ball, as you know, is a part of Hogwarts tradition," she said, keeping a steady gaze on Harry.

"But only for the Tri Wizard Tournament, right?" Harry added quickly, a sense of dread creeping over him.

"Correct, but in a case like this, we want to keep it as traditional as possible."

"You don't mean-"

"We'd like you and your partner to open the ball again, since you were Hogwarts champion in the tournament last year," Professor McGonagall continued as though she hadn't heard Harry's last comment. She paused with an irritable glare as Harry let out a low groan. "We _would_ have Cedric do it," she added coldly, "but of course..."

That was a low blow. Harry held up a hand to signal that her point had been made. He didn't want to hear anymore, not with Cedric being brought on the subject.

"I'll do it," Harry muttered gruffly, his eyes lowered to the ground.

There was an awkward pause in conversation as Harry slowly, for a dramatic effect, turned to leave. But as he, for the second time, reached the door, Professor McGonagall called back to him, "Cedric would have wanted you to open the ball, Potter. He would have wanted the Tri Wizard Tournament to be remembered."

Harry didn't turn to Professor McGonagall has he left. He didn't say a word; he didn't trust himself to speak because he knew he'd end up saying what he _really_ thought Cedric would want. Cedric wouldn't want tradition and remembrance at a time like this. If there was anything Harry was sure Cedric wanted, it was for everyone to be happy and without cares, not having everyone grieving and fearing what's to come, and, of course, to be alive. But it couldn't be helped now, and neither could tradition.

Note to readers: Yes, the infamous Yule Ball has returned! laughs evilly MWAHAHAHA!!! stops laughing suddenly Uh… right… Please review. I will have chapter twelve out soon! I'll give you a bit of a preview: A lot about the Yule Ball and Quidditch! Not much change from this chapter, eh? Oh, well…


	12. In Time

Disclaimer: As usual, I own none of the Harry Potter material. All that belongs to me is Rouge, the plot, and any other nameless or named characters that don't belong to J.K. that'll hang around in this fic for a couple paragraphs and never be heard of again. You can use any of my characters with my permission, so feel free to ask.

Note to readers: I'm sure I'll end up saying this whenever I'll post a chapter on this fanfic, but here goes: I'M SOOOOOOOOOOOOORY!!! I really didn't mean for this chapter to be so late, but it just… was. I guess what's to blame is my paranoia that I've sunken deep into the flames that I _should_ be getting with Mary-Sue-ism resting on my shoulders. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it's possible. Now a few things to ask of you readers again, but this time, it's for your benefit. Now listen carefully. (1) For you 'Pro-Cho' people (fans of Cho Chang), if would be very displeased _with me_ if I were to severely hurt and/or kill Cho in this fanfic (even though it may be a huge part of the plot), you MUST TELL ME. Please tell me in your review for this chapter if any of the above applies to you. If you fail to inform me of this… well… that would be bad. But on a lighter note, (2) If you'd like to receive e-mail alerts _from me_ on newly uploaded chapters, please leave your email address along with your request for e-mail alerts in your review for this chapter. Okay? I'll remind you again at the end of the fic… I think that's all… so… more personal thanks:

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PotterGirl – Oh, you'll see who Rouge goes to the ball with… Not in this chapter… Not in the next chapter either… But you'll see eventually.

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LittleMaggie – Well, isn't that nice… I lied again. This chapter is WAY late, and I'm SOOO sorry. I really liked Cedric too… He was one of my favs too sniff. I'm trying to be _very_ careful with Draco's character, but I'm afraid I may stray off his true character later on… He'll still be an evil dude, but he'll have another motivation in his mind… I'll leave that up to you're imagination. Everyone seems in character? You think so? I'm not sure… I stray WAY too far from Hermi and Harry's true characters, but I'm doing it anyway. Please keep reviewing! I love your reviews so much! And I cannot tell you how happy I am to be on your favorites list… I almost cried… --;; Geez, I'm getting so sentimental, but thank you. And thanks also for your comfort about my "bad" review from JMR. It's not the bad review that hurt me; it was that JMR is a close friend of mine from one of my old schools. It wouldn't bother me as much if it were just _anyone_. But I really appreciate your concern. I still can't understand why people compare me to our beloved JK… I'm just a kid with no social life… How can some pre-teen nobody be compared to the greatest children's author in decades, maybe centuries? How can I be compared to my own hero? It just doesn't make sense. But I do thank you for your kindness toward me. You are one of the few people that makes me think writing is really worthwhile.

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Purple Ink – HELLO! Long-time-no-review! I can't tell you who'll go to the Yule Ball with who, because, quite frankly, you're the one to decide. You and the rest of the readers, that is. So just sit back for this chapter, as well as wait for the next, and THEN you can vote for which shippings shall be in this fic.

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Skade – Maniacal laughter for the Yule Ball is needed, but still, other things must be done. I'm glad you liked the "new" first chapter. I hated the old one and wanted it to be redone. I suppose Rain (as in your ficcy) inspired me… a lot… a lot, a lot. So you'll get some major credit in the ending "Special Thanks To" along with everything else. Thanks for reading this chapter before I posted it… My paranoia was getting the better of me, as always. I look forward to your letters and piccies!

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WaterLynx – I'm sure you won't be in lack of flames for _this_ chapter… Sorry, I should have posted this sooner… Oh, well. Ya gonna hold a knife threateningly over me in this review? Maybe since you're in this chapter you'll let me of easy…

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a fetish little number – Interesting web name… But thanks for the compliments! I will continue writing the fic, and please continue reading!

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Kat aka Toni – HEY, KAT!!! Thanks for reading the… ahem First chapter ahem… And I'd really like you to read the rest… big pleading eyes Please-ee?… I'll find somewhere to add Kat in… See you in the message boards!

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Feather – Laurie-chan!!! I'm really glad to get e-mails from you again! I cannot begin to tell you how much I missed hearing from you. But life can be that hectic sometimes… Well, here's your "MORE!" and it should keep you happy for at least a little while… E-mail me soon!

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CaptinNobody – What makes me so good at dramatic crap? I dunno… I don't think I'm good at it, so I can't really tell you. Keep trying with the dramatic crap, but I still think your strong point is in the hilariously funny stuff (WRITE MORE "Ask PMP"!!!)… And by the way, I'm still mad at JMR, intentions or not. Gawd, I hope Rouge doesn't turn out to be a Mary-Sue… If she does, please stop me in my tracks and burn me at the stake over the flames I should get. But it shouldn't happen… That Mary-Sue Test on What's in a Name has become my bible. And by the way, my captin friend, Xcrystal isn't too good of a name for an HP character… My advice for names is to stick with other languages. Italian, Latin, and French are always the best. But that's just my opinion. THE LEECH IS WRITING AN HP FANFICTION?! panics, and begins to hyperventilate Okay, IF she writes it, make sure she posts it here on and make sure to get her pen name and the title of this… horrible fic… We could have a world of fun, burning her with flames… "There once was a man from Nantucket…" What's the rest of that poem? By the way, chapter two of my Hermi/Voldie fic is in the works.

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Tenchiko Kouno – Yeah, a plot that doesn't center on romance, what a concept… I'm glad someone appreciates the work I put into searching for good fanfics… Thank you. For all the appreciation and compliments and everything I might have forgotten… LONG-LIVE LATE NIGHT FANFIC READING!!! By the way, your writing is wonderful! Please write more!

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Kiota - begins to look very frightened Yes, Kiota… Voldemort is Rouge's father… Eh… You didn't know that? Sorry, never mind. Just keep that bit of information in mind… It's VERY important… Will Rouge go to the ball with Harry?… Hm… I dunno. You decided.

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Mrs Norris – YAAY!!! YOU READ MY LIL' OL' FANFIC!!! I'm so happy… And you should be too. Because… drum roll YOU'RE MY 100th REVIEWER!!! throws around confetti and streamers WOOHOO!!! Is Rouge evil?… Or is she not?… Well, that's what the fic's all about, isn't it? I believe you've become one of my favorite reviewers… I'm sure you're honored. And I'm on your favorites list! sniffs and wipes away a tear I'm so happy… I love being on people's favorites list. You really think Draco and Rouge should be a couple?… I dunno… But they are quite the match made in hell. But them together might make Rouge too much of a Mary-Sue… Only reviews will tell.

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CloudChick – No shift keys for you, eh? Just kidding. Have you written any of your fic lately? I really want to read more of that… Please write more!

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Nikki Marie – You're right. Being evil's not a bad thing… I'm sure Rouge will teach all of us that… Thanks for the review! Continue reading and your own writing!

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She's a Star – Goodness! I thought you'd never read my lil' ol' fic! I'm so happy! You get points for saying 'wonderful' and 'love' in more reviews than anyone else. POINTS FOR YOU! I love your writing and I hope to read more once I get a little free time…

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The Jew in Gryffindor – "Meepies"? Good word. I'm glad you think Rouge isn't a Mary-Sue. I take far too much pride and paranoia in that. I'm still reading your fic… I'll read more soon. I promise. You wanna see who Rouge goes to the ball with? Everyone seems to… Strange… Well, only time (and reviews) will tell.

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Midnight maelstrom – ASHLEY-CHAN!!! We need to write each other more… We're drifting apart… That' bad. I hope this chapter keeps Mr. Vipertooth away…

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PepsiAngel - The infamous Pepsi? Good name. Everyone I ask wants Draco/Rouge to happen! JUST BECAUSE OF THAT LIL' OL' SCENE IN THE FORBIDDEN FOREST!!! Oh, well… What the readers want, they want. And what the readers want, they get. You can vote for Draco/Rouge later on… And Voldie isn't a good father! That's the essence of the story! Duncha think? Well, here's your "More...more...must have more." READ AND ENJOY AND REVIEW!!!

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Derangedheathen – YAAY!!! Another Neopian! I'm glad someone finally looks at my userlookup. I'm really glad I like your story, and I promise to write more. I'll try to read your fics as soon as I get a little free time…

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Anarlina – And the LOTR fan finally reviews… I really like LOTR fanmail and I can't wait for the next segment. Please write more of it soon! And I promise to write more of this as well.

I've gotten 117 reviews!!! WOOHOO!!! More than 100!!! And, once again, congratulations to Mrs Norris for being the 100th reviewer! Read and enjoy and review this chapter so I can get a start on chapter 13…

Oh! One more thing… I know this chapter isn't the greatest chapter to finally take note of someone, but anyway... I guess I'd like to dedicate this chapter to a fellow author I've always considered superior to me, but has never ceased to surprise me. That author would be The Kosmic V-Babe (read her writing if you haven't already!). I have always admired her beautiful work with Draco/Hermi fanfics and poetry, but I never thought she'd take an interest in anything I've written. One day after she had reviewed my other HP fanfic, "Happy In The Meantime", I took a look at her favorite stories list… just to see. I was shocked, amazed, and overwhelmed with joy (not to mention an ego-inflation) to see that, low and behold, there I was. "The Red Shadow by Rouge Magie." It was such a surprise to me since she had never reviewed this fic before, and I suppose I just want to thank The Kosmic V-Babe, being the wonderful author she is, for liking my lil' ol' fic. And even more for honoring me by being the author of (currently) the only Harry Potter fanfic on her list. So, in short, thanks The Kosmic V-Babe.

Oh, and thanks a million to Micky and Sharon for their help on 'that scene.' =D You guys are the greatest!

Okay, NOW I'm done rambling.

Chapter 12: In Time

Harry stood waiting in the Charms corridor on the third floor with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had been waiting there for almost the entire break between classes and he was starting to wonder if he had missed her coming out. He knew he wasn't going to catch her alone, so he hadn't bothered following her around all day. He wasn't going to wait until the last minute. He was going to ask her now. There would be no other guy in the way, this time.

He had decided to ask her as she came out of Charms, mostly because that was when he has the longest break to pull himself together. He had no idea how he had gotten through his morning classes, knowing what he was about to do, it seemed utterly mad. He begun to think that he _was _mad for doing this and that he should be aware of that since déjà vu had taken over his life and luck. He forcefully ignored these thoughts by telling himself; _She _won't_ have a date this time... She _won't_ have a date this time... She _won't_ have a date..._

A pack of giggling girls exited the classroom and Harry jumped with nerves. He took a deep breath and shook his head as though trying to clear it of his pessimistic thoughts. He approached the girls and, noticing he was shaking quite badly, tried to steady himself as he nervously began, "Er... Cho?"

Abruptly, the girls stopped and turned to look at him. Some of the girls began to giggle again quietly, but stopped, once again, abruptly as Cho stepped forward. The first thing Harry noticed was that she stood out vividly among her friends, partly because her presence alone silenced a group of teenage girls, a task considered impossible by many. Her face was paler than Harry remembered, lacking its usual glow and heartwarming smile. Her silky black hair didn't have the perfect straightness it once had, and her dark eyes were lackluster. Cho stared at Harry with a somewhat expectant, but patient expression and he gestured hopelessly for a moment before choking out, "Cho, could... could I have a word with you?" Cho nodded simply and followed Harry away from her group of now whispering friends. Harry took a deeper breath.

"Cho?" he began, rocking slightly on his heels, keeping his head down to avoid Cho's eyes, "Would you... go to the... the Yule Ball... with... with me?" He said all this very, very slowly, as he didn't want to make a fool of himself by letting the words come out too fast as he did last year. She was _going_ to say 'yes'. There wasn't any reason for her to say 'no'. He wasn't going to let time repeat itself.

But time, of course, is something we have no control over.

Cho sighed, which brought Harry's attention back up to her gaze. Her expression had become one of regret, and Harry pleaded and hoped that she wasn't about to say what he had now begun to horribly imagine her saying. But as déjà vu turned its head in Harry's direction once more, she did.

"I'm sorry, Harry..." Cho begun, looking away from him as though out of embarrassment and deep sorrow, "I... I just can't go." She turned, and began to walk down the corridor with her head lowered and a few of her friends in her wake. Harry tried to call out 'Why?' but he was speechless. She had said 'no', as simple as that, with no apparent reason that came to mind. But _why_?

Harry felt a hand placed on his shoulder. He turned around to stare up at a pair of eyes, as pale green as jade. It was one of Cho's friends; one who strayed from the rest of the group. She was tall, nearly a whole head taller than Harry. She had dirty blonde hair that hung down to her waist, a small orb of black cat's eye stone that hung around her neck on a gold chain, and a hand covered with rings of gold, silver, and colored stones on Harry's shoulder. He starred up at her, dazed and defeated, and she starred down at him with pity and sympathy.

"It's not your fault, Harry," she said in a comforting tone, her hand slowly lifting from his shoulder. "She misses Cedric. Give her some time."

Harry nodded absentmindedly and turned his gaze from the girl's jade-stone eyes and stared at Cho's retreating figure. He nodded again with unwanted understanding, and the girl's smile warmed.

"She'll come 'round," she said giving Harry one last pat on the shoulder. "Just you wait." And with that said and done, she turned from Harry and walked down the corridor, following her disembarked friends. Harry ran a hand through his unruly black hair out of frustration. It seemed as though time was actually enjoying making life difficult for him. And how was he suppose to compete for Cho's love with someone who's dead?! With a final sigh, he turned a walked down the opposite direction of the corridor, his head bowed. When he finally brought himself to look up again, his eyes met another pair, deep, dark cobalt blue in color.

He stopped and stared at Rouge, who stood at the end of the corridor, only a few yards away, staring back at him with her unchanging, dispassionate, blank expression. They stared without moving for a minute or two, and then she quickly turned and hurried off towards the staircases. Harry starred in bewilderment at where Rouge had stood, wondering why she had watched him ask Cho to the ball, and what she had in mind.

"How can you not like her, Hermione?"

"I just don't, Ron. Drop it."

"She's pretty, she's smart-"

Hermione looked up from her book to stare at Ron with daggers in her eyes, interrupting him sharply.

"Are you sure we're talking about the same girl, Ron? She's not _all_ that pretty, you know. And how can you say she's smart?" Hermione felt personallyinsulted by Ron calling that nuisance of a girl 'smart.' "She never answers any Professor's questions except what her _name_ is. She never draws attention to herself in class-"

"So she's quiet, big deal."

"Well, how can _you_ like her so much? I've never seen her with any sort of facial expression. She's always got that dead look..."

"Everyone has their quirks, Hermione. And she kind of reminds me of... well, you know... Fleur."

Hermione snorted with dry laugher before murmuring, "That's the least of my vexations with that girl."

"Why are you two even talking about _her_?" Harry muttered bitterly, spitting out the word '_her_' like it was an insult, without looking up from his untouched-lunch. He'd lost his appetite after his encounter with Cho, and just a simple mutter from him had the same effect as if he had shouted. Ron had been running through a mental list of every girl he even faintly knew of in their year, or any year at that, to ask to the upcoming ball. But when he reached a certain blue-eyed French girl sitting alone at the end of the table, one of Ron and Hermione's famous rows began and was holding strong all through lunch. But the two silenced immediately at Harry's words and gave him a pair of those worried looks that Harry had grown to hate over term. But their silence didn't last long.

"It's not likely that she has a date to the ball since she's so quiet..." Ron stated thoughtfully as he threw another glance at Rouge.

"You're not suggesting that you're actually going to ask her to the ball, are you, Ron?" Hermione asked incredulously with a shocked and disgusted look.

"I might as well... I don't want to end up like last year-"

"So even if she doesn't say a single word to you all through the ball, you'd still want her to go with you because she's a _blonde_ from _Beauxbatons_," Hermione summarized coldly with daggers still in her eyes.

"That sounds about right. Why?"

"You're _hopeless!_ I'd think you would have learned _something_ from Fleur last year. Do really _enjoy_ being turned down?"

"Who says I'll be turned down this time?" Ron said with an optimistic grin as he got up from his seat.

"I do. Don't you agree with me, Harry?" Hermione looked over at Harry, and he nodded disapprovingly, still without looking up.

"It wouldn't hurt to ask her," Ron retorted in an offended manner. "And what do you have against her, Harry?"

"She reminds me of a dementor," Harry muttered almost inaudibly, still staring down, and he said nothing more. He simply couldn't explain it to them. He couldn't truly explain what happened to him when a _real_ dementor was around, and he couldn't explain why the same things happened when he was around that certain, blue-eyed girl. Neither Ron nor Hermione could think of a reply to this, being as strange and unexpected as the comment was. They threw worried glances, this time at each other. After a minute or so of tense silence, Hermione continued the argument.

"You can't go to the ball with her, Ron."

Ron gave Hermione a quizzical look. "And why not?"

"She's... she's dangerous," she stuttered defiantly, and even Hermione was surprised at how strange the comment sounded once she had finally said it. Ron arched an eyebrow at her.

"_Dangerous_, Hermione? How could she be _dangerous_?"

Hermione didn't reply. She was sure they wouldn't believe her. Though she and Harry shared a disliking for Rouge, he'd never believe- Hermione cut off her own thoughts. She didn't even want to think about it, let alone believe it, and Ron would be the most unlikely to believe of any of the members of their triumvirate. She would just have to handle it herself and let them be oblivious to what she knew.

"Wish me luck!" Ron said blithely after another moment of silence, rather awkward among best friends. Ignoring their mutterings of 'you'll regret it,' Ron began to walk over to Rouge just as she rose from her seat and walked over to the doorway of the Great Hall.

"Hey, er... Rouge!" Ron called as he ran towards her. Rouge looked back at him with a politely surprised look as she turned around to face him and he skidded to a halt in front of her. She waited with a book held to her chest as Ron began to speak.

"Say, er, Rouge? You don't have a partner to the Yule Ball, by any chance, do you?"

Rouge shook her head. "No. As a matter of fact, no one's asked me yet." Ron grinned at his luck and Rouge gave him a curious look.

"Well, then, would you be- ...I mean, consider being my partner? My dance partner? To the ball, that is." Ron said all this very quickly with his eyes widening in hopeful anticipation. For a moment Rouge just blinked at Ron, narrowing her eyes slightly in puzzlement, not quite sure if she had heard him correctly, and at the same moment, Ron began to think that he resembled a sea slug to every girl from Beauxbatons. Rouge's eyes suddenly widened with realization, and she looked down at her feet out of embarrassment, as though something on the floor was terribly interesting.

"That's... that's very kind of you, Ron," Rouge said quietly as her eyes flickered momentarily over to the Gryffindor table. "But... I'm sorry, Ron... I... I can't go to the ball with you." She reached out a hand as though to pat him sympathetically on the arm, but it seemed as though her hand couldn't make the last few inches and she slowly let her hand fall to her side.

"Someone else is waiting for you," she added in almost a whisper, and exited the Great Hall, leaving Ron stunned, baffled, and sure Hermione would soon be saying 'I told you so...'

"Tell me more about Quidditch here at Hogwarts, Ron."

"Back in my third year, there was this wicked game of Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor..."

"What happened?"

"We– I mean Gryffindor, that is. We were winning all the way up to the very last bit. But then the dementors- You have dementors in France, don't you?"

"Of course we do. Please continue."

"Right, well, there were dementors stationed all around the school because Sirius Black was on the loose – I'm sure you know about him – and they came onto the Quidditch field! Attracted to the excitement of the crowded or something. And Harry – he's Gryffindor seeker, y'know – he fell from his broom! It had to have been fifty feet! Maybe more!"

"Oh! Was he all right?"

"Of course he was all right. Dumbledore – you know, the headmaster – he ran out to the field and put a spell on Harry so he fell slower, right before he hit the ground. Cedric Diggory – he was the Hufflepuff seeker and captain, nice fellow he was, pity 'bout him – well, he caught the snitch before he realized Harry had fallen. Cedric was really sorry, too. He asked for a rematch and everything, but Wood – Oliver Wood was the Gryffindor captain, but he's graduated now – he said that Hufflepuff had one fair and square. He must have been barking mad to say that. That was the only game Gryffindor ever lost. With Harry on the team, that is."

"Wow, and Gryffindor won the cup even though they lost that match?"

"We sure did. You should have seen Harry's face when we won, Rouge. I doubt he had ever been happier in his life. Quidditch means so much to him, though I do remember that other time in third year, Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw. Wood said the funniest thing to Harry during that game..."

Rouge and Ron talked of past Quidditch games and Quidditch players around Hogwarts in the Gryffindor common room, waiting for six o'clock to come around for they both had intentions of trying out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They had come to terms earlier that afternoon after Rouge's refusal and, after many awkward moments of conversation in the corridors, realized they had some things in common. In short, they both liked Quidditch and that seemed to be enough. Ron was having a considerably amount of fun playing storyteller this evening, and he was enjoying having Rouge as his audience. She always seemed as though she was really listening to him, that she was really and truly interested, hanging off his every word. She even gasped during the story of the rogue Bludger from second year at the point the Bludger had hit Harry. They were both so deep in the stories that they didn't notice Ron's two best friends walk through the portrait hole. Harry and Hermione exchanged looks of disbelief upon beholding the sight before them.

"Didn't he say that she turned him down?" Hermione whispered to Harry with more urgency than seemed necessary for the situation.

"I thought he did," Harry replied, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully without breaking his stare on the two. He and Hermione walked over to the two armchairs where Ron and Rouge sat and they stood on either side of Rouge, just behind her armchair, staring with irritable expressions at Ron. He looked up at them with a look of pleasant surprise across his face.

"All right, mates? Just telling Rouge about some of your games, Harry."

Rouge practically leapt from her chair as she turned around and saw Harry and Hermione standing beside her armchair. She stared at the three of them, from one to the next with a rather nervous expression, got up from her armchair. She went and stood beside Ron's as Harry and Hermione watched with expressions of not too subtle disapproval as though they had caught Ron in an act of heinous betrayal. Ron stared at his two best friends and, sensing the tenseness and awkwardness of the situation, he spoke up.

"'Bout time we headed out to the field, eh, Harry?" he said quickly with a glance at his watch.

"Yeah. Fred, George, and the others are already out at the pitch," Harry replied, looking away from Rouge and down at Ron. "I better get my broom."

"Yeah, me too. Been wanting to put my new broom into some real action," Ron said with a grin spreading across his face.

Harry blinked. "You got a new broom, Ron?"

"Sure did. Fred and George bought it for me over the summer holidays. Said they wanted me to get on the team before they left Hogwarts, and there was no way I'd get a spot on my old Shooting Star. _Butterflies_ outstripped that thing, so they got me a Cleansweep Seven! Their Cleansweep Fives are no match for a Cleansweep Seven! It don't know where they got the gold for it... and it took me awhile to trust that they hadn't jinxed it."

Harry laughed, choosing not to mention that he had given his Tri Wizard winnings to the twins just then, and the two of them ran up to the boys' dormitories, leaving Rouge and Hermione still staring unpleasantly at each other. Hermione watched Ron and Harry until they were well out of earshot, then she turned to Rouge with a fierce glare.

"You're not going to get away with it, Rouge," she hissed.

Rouge looked taken aback. "Get away with what? What are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. I saw you on Halloween, I know it was you-"

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but you must be mistaken," Rouge interrupted quickly and calmly with a deadpan expression on her face. "Now if you don't mind, I, too, must get my broom." And without a backward glance, she hurried up the stairs to the girls' dormitories.

The three broom-holders came down from the dormitories at about the same time. Harry with his Firebolt, Ron with his Cleansweep Seven, and Rouge with her own broom, which even Ron couldn't recognize. Only George Weasley seemed to be able to recognize it when they had reached the Quidditch pitch.

"A _Changement du Vent_…" George said in actual awe, turning over the broom in his hands carefully as though it were made of glass instead of slender pine. The sliver letters reading, '_Changement du Vent_' glinted in the setting sunlight. "How'd you get one? They only shipped about a 'hundred of these in Britain. The Quiberon Quafflepunchers used 'em before the Firebolt came out."

"Zat's why I got it een France," Rouge said with casual pride, her voice dripping with her natural, native-tongued French accent. George's gaze snapped up from the broom at Rouge's change of voice and he blinked several times at her before he managed to speak.

"You really are from Beauxbatons, aren't you? Ron told me about you just now."

"Really? I'm flattaired," Rouge said delicately as a hand rose to her cheek as if out of modesty and George grinned. Charm had always been an act Rouge could play when she really wanted to use it, which, thankfully for her own sanity, wasn't often. She could thank her mother for the talent, and even her father, somewhat, but she still wasn't even close to a Veela.

"Say, _Rouge_, wasn't it? Would you happen to know a girl by the name of _Fleur Delacour_?" George said lowering his voice and Rouge's smile flickered.

"Eh... yes. I 'appen to be aquatinted wiz 'er," Rouge stuttered as she tried to maintain an air of elegance and failed. George's grin widened hopefully. "Well, in that case," he said, lowering his voice to almost a whisper as he glanced around quickly, "could you possibly... y'know... get me a date with her?"

Rouge's flashy smile dropped into nonexistence and she regained her usual, natural, coldhearted expression.

"I'll see what I can do," Rouge said coldly in her adapted English accent that took George by surprise. Rouge barely resisted the temptation to say something obscene about Fleur or George's taste in girls, whatever the difference may be, or saying anything that would end with a slap, so she continued, "Shouldn't you be starting the try-outs about now?"

"Huh? Oh, right," George stuttered as he slowly remembered why he happened to be there in the first place. Rouge snatched her broom from George's hands and she stalked back over to the crowd of excited and not so patiently waiting Gryffindors with her head held higher than her usual hunching sulk. She had to keep what little dignity she had left.

Fred Weasley stood before the group of Gryffindors, clearing his throat to get their attention. They were a rough, motley crew of students, ranging from first to seventh years, boys and girls alike. All were eager to try-out, and all were even more eager to get on the team.

"As you may know," Fred began, trying to sound as though he had some sense authority, "I'm Fred Weasley and I'm the new captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And this here is my co-captain, George," Fred finished with a gesture to George and George blinked.

"Why do _you_ get to be captain and _I_ have to be co-captain?" George asked Fred with a furrowed brow.

"Because _my_ name comes first," Fred said matter-of-factly.

George blinked again. "Oh."

"As I was saying, we're the new captains and, with the help of the rest of the team and Madam Hooch, we'll choose which one of you will be the new Keeper," Fred said with a gesture, this time, to Harry, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet. They all waved at the group of Gryffindors and Madam Hooch nodded silently.

"Professor McGonagall may help the decision, too. We don't want anyone who's failing his or her classes... too badly, anyway," Fred added with a short gesture to Professor McGonagall, who was sitting in the stands. She nodded, and the faces of the academically challenged Gryffindors fell.

"This'll work in a series of practices, each one focusing on a different Quidditch skill," Madam Hooch announced, strutting along the group of Gryffindors, hands behind her back and head held high, strikingly resembling a military sergeant and making those trying out form a straight line as she went. "For the first practice, I want you all to mount your brooms, fly up the shortest hoop's length, circle the field three times, and touch back down. The six of you who show the best results for speed and control over your broom shall go on to the next practice."

The Gryffindors mounted their brooms, some with more difficulty than others, and flew up to the given height. They circled the field in a cluster while the team below watched them carefully, commenting amongst themselves on the ones who showed potential. Madam Hooch watched them with her yellow eyes and hawk-like gaze. When the Gryffindors touched back down, they were all heavily wind-blown from pushing their brooms to fly faster than the others, and those who failed to do so glared at those who did.

"Now, you six," Madam Hooch said, pointing at the six Gryffindors who touched down first. "Fly up again to the same height and do the same number of laps, but this time..." Madam Hooch bent down and unlatched the crate that rested by her feet and the Gryffindors noticed immediately that the crate was shaking violently, "the two Bludgers will be in pursuit."

About four of the six Gryffindors flinched at this news, and Harry looked up to catch a glimpse of the two who didn't. Harry was overwhelmed with joy to see that one of them was Ron, looking confident with a laid-back grin. But the girl, who Ron stood next to, Harry wasn't too happy to see. She showed no sign of fear or confidence, only her indifferent expression, which was Rouge's trademark look.

The six mounted their brooms, some still with more difficulty then others this time out of trembling fear of getting mauled by Bludger. As they shot into the air, each at different speeds like six bullets out of an old revolver, Madam Hooch released the Bludgers, standing back with knowing caution. The six blurs of black robes across the evening sky tried to increase their speed for the Bludgers went zooming after them as though there were magnetic to the closest flyer. A boy on an old school broom at the back of the cluster was dismounted within seconds. The Bludgers went on causing more damage before the third lap was flown. One girl lost control of her broom after an overpowering swerve and Harry saw George shake his head.

"A Twigger 90," Harry distinctly heard George mutter to Fred, "it's only flown by wizards with more Galleons than sense." And Fred nodded in agreement.

By the third lap, only three Gryffindors remained untouched by the iron Bludgers. They were Ron, Rouge, and a third year boy with a competitive and even rather formidable air about him; he first to volunteer for the last practice, and by that time the stands were speckled with the disappointed faces of about a dozen Gryffindors. Ron's once confident look showed signs of worry. The third year boy was light and speedy, definite Seeker material, but had the reflexes of a cat, just as the perfect Keeper should, and _that_ was what worried Ron.

Fred and George continuously gave Ron wide, encouraging grins. Harry, too, glanced over at him several times with his encouraging smile, a glint of unrivaled faith in his emerald eyes. Even Rouge give Ron a weak smile and a whisper in his ear, "_bonne chance,_" before they began the final practice, followed by her hurried translation, "_good luck._"

The final practice was one-on-one. The student in question would take the Keeper position at the goal posts, one Chaser would enter the scoring area, make the shot, and the Keeper would try to block the shot anyway they can, respectively, simple as that.

__

Simple as that… Ron continuously told himself as he watched the third year boy during his practice. _Simple as that…_

Only one shot got passed the boy, and just barely. His saves were simple, but effective with his speed. His mistake was in his lack of variation, and Alicia had been able to predict his movement and scored, but he still had saved more than was scored. This worried Ron even more; if he were going to beat this kid he'd have to block every single shot. Ron wasn't even taking Rouge's competition into consideration, except he was kind enough to let her go through the practice before him. Even with his voice slightly higher than usual, he made it seem as though it was a polite gesture, and Rouge took it with a shrug.

She mounted her broom and took position at the goal posts, circling them with what she hoped was a calm, determined air. Angelina glanced over at Katie and Alicia with a look that clearly said, 'a pushover' and she made an easy, slow approach with the Quaffle in hand, as though to give Rouge a chance. Rouge noticed this almost at once and she gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her broom handle out of prideful annoyance.

Just as Angelina entered the scoring area, Rouge made a sharp dive toward the ground, which made Angelina hesitate momentarily. After a second's thought she took this as a perfect opportunity to make a goal while the posts are unattended and she made a one-handed shot with just a simple roll of her shoulder. The Quaffle soared through the air with well-aimed grace, but a sudden black blur from below sent the scarlet Quaffle flying back. Angelina managed to catch it with both hands and she looked over at Rouge with a look of subtle surprise. Rouge returned it with a pretentious grin.

Rouge had hit the Quaffle with the tail end of her broom and with good aim, sending it back to Angelina. The rest of Rouge's blocks were simpler catches that worked well just the same. But just after Angelina signaled that this would be the last throw, Rouge's confidence took over her better judgement. If she blocked this last shot, the position would be hers without a doubt, she told herself. And for an encore, Rouge decided to do another elaborate block. She wanted to leave with an impression made.

Angelina made a swerve backwards to get a good amount of momentum, then sped forward, the Quaffle ready in her hands. Rouge made a dive and circled the goal post about ten feet below the hoop, with her eyes unblinkingly focused directly on the Quaffle, waiting like a snake in the grass, but Rouge waited too long. Her climb was ill timed and instead of knocking the Quaffle off-course, the scarlet leather ball hit her directly on her right shoulder where a gash was hidden by her robes but still remained untreated from Halloween night.

Rouge gasped for breath as the sudden shock of pain hit her as though the gash was freshly cut. She keeled over on her broom, clutching her broom handle for balance with one hand and her shoulder out of pain with the other. Angelina flew over to her, ignoring the Quaffle that fell slowly to the ground, rambling, "I'm _so_ sorry..."s, "I didn't realize I threw it _that_ hard..."s, and "Are you alright? Should you go to the Hospital Wing...?"s, but Rouge silently held up a hand, still clutching her shoulder with the other, signaling Angelina to stop.

"I'm all right," Rouge muttered slowly, still gasping for breath, fighting back tears at the searing pain like a dagger dragging through her shoulder. "Going to the Hospital Wing would be unnecessary, I assure you. It was just an accident. I hurt my shoulder, that's all."

Rouge flew back down to the stunned Quidditch team, stumbling as she dismounted. She staggered over to Ron, leaning against the barrier of the stands, still holding her near-bleeding shoulder. Ron stared at her with a mixture of worry and confusion, but Rouge returned the stare with a weak grin as though her pain was amusing to her, or more appropriately, ironic. She breathed a heavy sigh, and chuckled quietly to herself before she spoke up to Ron.

"You're up."

Even with Rouge's mistake on the last throw, Ron's worries were reaching a climax, but a mutter of his name drew his attention away.

"_Ron_!" Hermione hissed from the stands above him. Ron looked from her, to the Quidditch team, all the members talking seriously and quietly together with Madam Hooch ("_...her focus was good..." "...a little over-confident..." "...and what's with her shoulder...?_"), then back up at Hermione. It looked as though he had some time to spare before his turn, so he mounted his broom and flew up the stands until he was eye-level with her. Hermione's warm brown eyes were filled with concern.

"Are you okay, Ron?" she asked, her tone matching her eyes with warm sentiment as she leaned over the barrier towards him.

"Yeah, I guess, just a little nervous... I..." His words broke off for a moment and he looked down, averting his eyes from Hermione as though out of shame. "I have to get on the team, Hermione. I've got to be something beside my brothers, and this could be my only chance," Ron finished quickly and quietly, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"But you were made a prefect!" she argued, obviously thinking that this was much higher an honour than some silly Quidditch position.

"That _had_ t've been a mistake," Ron mumbled, half out of self-deprecation and half out of embarrassment. The tips of his ears were already slightly pink.

"Well, _I _don't-"

"But _I do_, and there's _no way _I'll get on the team." He was sulking now; sitting there hunched on his broom. He looked miserably up at Hermione, brow knitted. "Aren't there... aren't there any spells or something that could make me better? Could you use any on me?"

She bit her lip. "Oh... I really don't think so, Ron... I can't think of any... and you'd probably be disqualified for 'magical intervention' or... or..." Hermione trailed off as Ron seemed to deflate all over again, and, feeling a wave of pity for him, Hermione got an idea. "Well, I guess there's _one_ I could use-"

"Which spell?" Ron asked eagerly, leaning forward on his broom.

"Err... a... a calming charm! Yes, a calming charm!" At Ron's confused look, she added, smiling, "It'll at least help you feel less nervous."

"But... er... won't I get disqualified or whatever because of a calming charm...?"

"Oh, no," Hermione reassured him, her smile broadening and a glint in her eyes. "Not this charm. Don't worry, you'll be fine."

"All right, then... I guess," Ron murmured as Hermione pulled out her wand, smiling now, and pointed it between his eyes.

"You'll be brilliant, Ron, I know you will," she foretold, still smiling at him, sounding as though she believed in every word she said. "Good luck. _Illudious!_"

Ron seemed pacified if not faintly confused as he touched back down to the ground from the goal posts. He remembered – when Katie had called him over for his turn – wondering if Hermione's charm had really worked. He didn't _feel_ any specific change, but he had _seen _Hermione cast the charm and his faith in her spell-casting ability made him certain the charm had worked, and with that in mind he felt considerably calmer. He simply played as he'd always played, doing what came natural to him, and his nerves were eased by the fact that he felt that something was helping him.

Fred and George were ecstatic; giving congratulating slaps on Ron's back and ruffling his red hair fondly, shouting their praises as Ron unsteadily dismounted ("_You used a 'Starfish and Stick' formation! _Bloody hell, Ron, I've only seen that in 'Quidditch Through the Ages', never in play!" "Yeah, sure, you fumbled that first catch a bit, but still, you were _excellent_!"). Harry said continuous, cheerful congratulations, laughing at Ron's dazed look. Ron's eyes were glazed over with amazement, shaking his head with disbelief. The Keeper position was as good as his. Even Hermione hugged him when she caught up with him from the stands, telling him "I told you so! I told you so!" over and over, and he didn't mind in the slightest. Ron had finally done something that equaled him with his brothers. In his mind, Ron was in his place.

The group of celebrating teammates and friends marched up to the castle, rambling on about a needed party, still grinning and congratulating Ron. But one mind's thoughts were not completely focused on the-Keeper-to-be.

"Hey, Harry!" called a voice unfamiliar to Harry's ear, for he had never heard it say his name before. With his reflexes getting the better of him, he turned to see the figure of Rouge running to catch up with him.

Harry looked plaintively over to Ron and Hermione, but Ron shooed him in a dismissive way with a wave of his hand and a smile, mouthing 'go on!' while being pushed toward the castle by the Quidditch team, dragging Hermione with him before she could notice Harry's predicament. With an inward groan, Harry turned to Rouge's direction as she stopped before him, panting slightly from catching up and Harry got his first ever, good look at her.

Rouge's blonde hair hung to her shoulders and was a little flyaway from the evening of practices and seemed to have a glint of silver in the twilight. Her alabaster skin had a flush of pink in her cheeks from flying in the cold November air and there was a smile across her face. The smile was weak and had the look as though she were trying very hard to keep it on her face, but it was a smile, nonetheless.

From Diagon Ally, to passing moments in the corridors, to just that very morning, Harry had never seen her smile. He also had never seen her talk to anyone except Draco – and even then she was somehow pushed away – until today. But while she had talked to Ron in the common room and to George on the field, she smiled. Harry put two and two together, but as his eyes wandered to the red streaks in her hair and her dark blue eyes for the _nth_ time, he mentally shook himself, and hard. She was still that girl from Nocturn Ally. She was still reminded him of his greatest fear. She was still '_her_'.

"Hey, Harry," Rouge said again and Harry wondered if she knew she was repeating herself. "I know we don't know each other very well... We've never really spoken to each other, have we?" She bowed her head, shut her eyes with a hand to her head, and she chuckled to herself at the pure idiocy of what she was about to do. Harry just stood there feeling as though he was missing something important and he refrained from saying anything he'd probably regret. Rouge suddenly looked up at Harry with her smile renewed, and Harry barely kept himself from wincing with the expectancy of pain as he looked at her in the eye. It's usually considered polite, but Harry couldn't help but regret letting their gazes meet.

As Harry's eyes remained transfixed on Rouge's, he became very aware of his scar. He wasn't in any pain as of then, but he was very aware of the mark on his forehead, the same way you're very aware of your neck before you're about to be guillotined, he reasoned. But Rouge kept her smile even with Harry's unspoken discomfort.

"I know there's probably a waiting list of girls to ask you..." Rouge admitted, a little quieter than her normal tone, and it hit Harry as hard as a Bludger to the head what she was about to ask. "But..." Rouge took a deep breath and Harry waited with unwanted expectancy, "would you consider going to the ball with me?" she finished quickly.

"Er..." Harry mumbled as his eyes flickered around the field for some means of escape. He found nothing and he forced himself to look at Rouge. She looked pitiful, her eyes pleading for him to say 'yes' and hoping that talking to him wouldn't have been in vain. She breathed slowly, obviously trying to keep from panicking. Her breaths formed in the cool November air into small, shapeless, and almost invisible clouds that swirled around her before rising up into the sea of gray sky above them that foretold coming snow. For a moment, Harry could _almost_ see what Ron meant when he said Rouge was pretty.

And for a moment, a single peculiar, passing moment devised of all the elements of the physical and mental world, in which they both were only two lost souls beaten down by uncontrollable misfortune... A moment in which Harry believed everything he thought badly of Rouge could somehow be proven wrong, and that they were both victims of a terrible, long-going misunderstanding... In that moment, Harry wanted to say, 'yes'.

But the moment passed through time with everything left unsaid, just as a single snowflake can pass you without your notice because one snowflake is too small to make a difference in the storm. One moment is not enough to make a difference in the span of time.

When the moment passed Harry seemed to have come to his senses, as well as his embarrassment for such a long stretch of silence on his part, which he hurriedly broke.

"Er..." he started again, repeating himself while breaking the old silence, but starting a new and worse one as he, panicking, thought of his next line. "Look," he said trying to sound firm and succeeding far too well, "I can't go to the ball with you. I... I..." He tried to end with a reason, but since he simply couldn't explain them all, he fumbled the rest of the sentence.

Rouge's smile, which had become something of a desperate sort, fell, though it didn't have far to fall. She bowed her head out of embarrassment, unable to look at Harry in the eye, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as their gazes were finally broken. But even with his small relief, Harry felt as though he should say something to her, so he took from his memory the phrase most frequently used in these situations.

"I'm really sorry, Rouge," he said, trying to sound comforting, and failing to sound as sorry as he claimed.

"No," Rouge said quietly with her head still down as she turned from Harry. "No, that's all right. I understand." Harry noticed that she was as bad a liar in these situations as he was. As she turned, she threw one last glance at Harry with her pitiful blue eyes, and he felt as though another Bludger hit him in the head, directly on his forehead, and his scar seared with the sudden pain. It wasn't a burning sort of pain like the Cruciatus Curse, but a stinging sort of pain like salt on an open wound, like the salt in tears.

The pain went as quickly as it came, and Harry shook off his trembling as he walked back to the castle, but with horrible, unnoticed obviousness as he unintentionally caught up with Rouge, he realized that they were going to the same place. There was no point in running ahead of her and condemning himself to be labeled as a rude prat, and he had nowhere else to go so late in the evening, so he walked along with her.

Harry could tell Rouge was aware of his presence beside her by the intense focus in her eyes not to look at him, so they walked in silence as the castle drew nearer. Harry found that his eyes kept wandering to the corner of his eyes to look at her expectantly. She was apparently determined to ignore him with her obdurately blank expression focused straight before her, which Harry guessed was out of sore pride. Rouge looked exactly as she did whenever Harry saw her around the castle, except her eyes weren't focused on the stone floor. By the time they had walked in silence for several minutes, Harry could stand it no longer.

"It wouldn't hurt to smile once and awhile, you know," he blurted out suddenly, saying exactly what was on his mind. Only when he had finally said it did he realize how _very _uncalled for the remark was. He had seen her smile three times that day, which seemed to be quite an accomplishment for her. Rouge threw him a denouncing stare accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

"Under the circumstances that I've been gathering my courage all day just to _ask_ you to the ball," she pointed out with a sharp edge to her tone, "and then I was _brutally _turned down, you do really think I should be smiling?"

Harry took a moment to consider this, and another to let his guilt settle.

"Well, no," he relented, "but I've never seen you with a smile before- ...until today. Even that day during the summer holidays at Diagon Ally... That _was_ you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that was me," Rouge said in a mutter. "And tell me, Harry, what's so great about always displaying your emotions on your face so you're as easy to read as a book? You become predictable that way. Exposed. _Weak_, even. We are our own enemies; our emotions are weapons that can be all too easily used against us. As Shakespeare once said, 'Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.' And do you really want everyone reading those 'strange matters'? In all honesty, Harry,I see no reason to be _smiling _all the time."

Harry didn't answer this and tired to become very focused on walking, his eyes on his feet, one foot in front of the other, step, step, step, step. It was then Rouge's turn to give him an expectant look, and when he still didn't answer, it was her turn to break the silence. She swallowed hard, composing herself, as though preparing for a speech.

"Not everyone's all smiles, Harry. I think you'd relate to that since you're not exactly all smiles yourself." Rouge then paused, or at least Harry thought she paused. He became lost in thought, wondering what she meant by her comment. When _was_ the last time he had smiled? It seemed like ages ago... Maybe Rouge was right.

Harry shivered, but Rouge took no notice since the November wind was harsh with cold; a shiver was nothing unusual. And a shiver, a shudder, a tremble of fear was nothing unusual for Harry Potter. Rouge was right, for Harry wasn't all smiles anymore. In fact, he hadn't truly smiled since before the Third Task, just weak facial gestures that would appear on his face at the appropriate moments to make things seem as though everything were normal, that _he_ was normal. But it wasn't true; none of it was true. He was about as normal as '_her_'.

When Harry emerged from his thoughts, Rouge was still silent. Her head was tilted slightly to one side, peering at him with a knowing look in her eyes. They were almost sympathetic, and Harry forcefully ignored his annoyance with her. He hated the sympathetic looks everyone gave him, and he didn't need any more of them, especially from Rouge. She got the hint from Harry's look of displeasure and she went back to looking ahead of them. She took that it was her burden to once again break their silence.

"_Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?_" Rouge murmured with her hands clasped behind her back and her eyes glancing slightly upward with a faintly thoughtful look. Harry blinked at her.

"What?"

"Wolfe. It's a quote by Thomas Wolfe. 'Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?'"

They continued walking in silence, Rouge still looking faintly thoughtful and Harry's brow knitted in curious confusion. Quite the philosophical pair they made.

"You know... my maman once told me-" 

"Your _what_?"

"My _maman_, my _mère... _my _mother_, Harry," Rouge exclaimed exasperatedly with a sigh. "It's French, Harry. Surely you must know _a little_ being that France isn't too_ terribly_ far away. It's only across the _bloody English Channel_."

There was another moment of silence, speaking far more than Harry could reply.

"As I was saying," Rouge began slowly and irritably, "My _mother_ is a Herbologist and once she-"

"A _what_?" Harry interrupted again, and Rouge stopped walking altogether.

"Oh, Merlin's beard, Harry-" she spilled out, her agitation rising. She was breathing slowly and heavily, her eyes shut tightly and a hand to her brow as though their conversation was becoming painfully trying and definitely testing her self-control.

"A Herbologist," Rouge began again, very slowly, "is someone who studies Herbology as a profession... like Professor Sprout, for example. She probably became a Herbologist before she became a professor. That's what my mother does. She enchants muggle plants, finds the magical properties in them and the like. Lots of magical genetics work. Do you get it now, Harry?"

Harry only replied with an absentminded nod. He was just now noticing how many times Rouge had said his name, which happened to be quite a lot. It seemed as though through the conversation she was reminding herself to whom she was speaking, more than she was trying to address him.

"Anyway..." she began, inhaled, exhaled, and took on a demeanor of quiet seriousness. "My mother, she once told me something Leigh Hunt once said: 'Whenever evil befalls us, we ought to ask ourselves, after the first suffering, how we can turn it into good. So shall we take occasion, from one bitter root, to raise perhaps many flowers.'" Rouge said nothing else and Harry was left to think about this. Something... something was comforting about those words. It seemed almost cliché, to be comforted in a time of hardship by an inspirational quote, but there is always some truth to clichés.

"What you think it means?" Harry asked after a few moments of silence, trying to keep up the feel of philosophy, and Rouge paused for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"I dunno... there's lots of meanings. It's all about interpretation, isn't it? Sounds like Leigh knew what she was talking about, though. And it's always comforting to feel like someone in the world knows what they're talking about." Rouge grinned at Harry, and he returned it.

Harry and Rouge were an odd pair, walking side-by-side through the Entrance Hall. They seemed to clash violently in physical appearance. From hair and eye color, to skin tone, and even to, ever so subtly but still a difference all the same, height. They were different, but had become accustom to each other's presence and accepted each other's company. But they were not alone.

A group of Slytherins walked down the marble staircase to the entrance of the Slytherin dungeons and Draco Malfoy's drawling voice could be heard well over the rest of the chatter. Harry promptly looked the other way and quickened his pace up the staircase to the upper corridors to prevent an encounter with Draco and his crowd, but Rouge didn't follow him, her eyes trailing the Slytherins as they passed. Harry looked back at Rouge as he noticed she no longer walked beside him and he stopped to wait for her, but she still didn't follow him. Instead, she quickly ran over to the Slytherins with a shout, "Hey, Draco!"

The Slytherins stopped and turned to look at Rouge with Draco right in front as Harry gaped at her from across the hall. Rouge looked back at him with a dismissive wave of her hand, and with only a moment of hesitation, Harry made his way up the staircase. Rouge watched him go with a small smile about as warm as a wisp of steam in case Harry looked back and Rouge was correct in her guess that he would.

Harry glanced back at her with the same dumfounded, gaping look and he suddenly saw, as Draco and Rouge stood together, how similar they looked, in more ways than meets the eye. Not just physically with their pale faces and silver blonde hair, but the auras around them seemed to be of the same sort. Harry found this unnerving and quickly turned left when he reached the landing and the top of the stairs and hurried on his way back to Gryffindor Tower, this time, without looking back. Rouge's face darkened as Harry walked out of sight, ending her act of kindness, and she didn't have to turn around before Draco began.

"If you're going to ask me to the ball, _Magie_, you're wasting your time." Rouge didn't have to turn around to see Draco's smirk, for she knew it would be there just as it always was, accompanying that tone of voice.

"Don't flatter yourself, Draco. As much as you may not want to believe otherwise, it's _not_ flattering," Rouge observed dispassionately as she slowly turned around. "And you really need to work on your insults. Calling me '_Magie_' just doesn't work."

Draco sneered at her and folded his arms across his chest. The rest of the Slytherins followed his lead and threw Rouge pompous looks while Crabbe and Goyle glared menacingly.

"So you've come to waste _my_ time, have you?" Draco asked as he stared at Rouge with an air of superiority.

"On the contrary," Rouge said calmly as she took a step forward. "I have a proposition for you."

Draco rose an eyebrow and reflexively glanced over at Crabbe and Goyle on either of his sides, making sure he had an upper hand before he started anything.

"What's in it for me?" he asked, but Rouge held up a hand as her eyes moved curiously to the two bodyguards who flanked Draco.

"They're the new Beaters for the Slytherin Quidditch team, are they not?" she asked inquiringly with a gesture to Crabbe and Goyle.

"Yeah, they are, but what-?"

"And does Slytherin not have a Quidditch game against Ravenclaw in about a month?"

"We do," Draco said shortly, his patience running dangerously thin. Rouge's lips twisted into a cruel smile with a mutter, "_perfect._" But within a second, a serious, poker-face expression reappeared on her face.

"So, are you interested?" she asked nonchalantly and Draco's patience just about gave way.

"_What's in it for me?_" he hissed, almost as a threat and Rouge shot a suspicious glance at the surrounding Slytherins. She grabbed Draco's shoulder and steered him away from the crowd until they were out of earshot. Draco stared at her with growing bafflement and horror, opening his mouth to protest, but Rouge answered him before he even asked with another mutter, "_witnesses._"

Draco gave Rouge a puzzled look, the same look you give a loon who's just walked up to you, covered in tin foil, and has asked you to take them to your leader. And Draco was ready to believe that Rouge _was_ a lunatic as she grabbed both his shoulders, making him stare at her straight in the eye, a determined, detesting madness shading the blue of her eyes.

"You'll hurt Potter more than your pointless taunting ever could," she said darkly, malice dripping thickly from her words. Her voice didn't sound as though it were her own, partly because she had never referred to Harry as "Potter" before, but an interested smirk slowly split across Draco's face, and he rose an eyebrow, beckoning her to continue. "No physical scars will be left, _on him_, but a good amount of emotional scars... Not that he needs anymore with that one on his head," she finished with a scoff.

For what seemed like ages, Draco stared at Rouge, up and down, sizing her up. He sized her up as a Gryffindor, he sized her up as a Death Eater, and he sized her up as a possible accomplice. Apparently she made the cut. Draco stuck out his hand in a business deal-like fashion and Rouge gave him a satisfied, sideways smirk. She knew Draco would be easily bought with Harry's happiness on the line. They shook hands and Draco sealed the deal with three calm, clear words.

"I'll do it."

Note to readers: That should be long enough for you… Considering that it's over sixteen pages on Microsoft Word. I hope y'all liked it, it took me long enough to write… As for the reminders: (1) If you're 'Pro-Cho' and would be highly displeased _at me_ if Cho were hurt and/or killed in this fic, you MUST TELL ME in your review for this. It's for your own good. (2) If you'd like e-mail alerts _from me_ on newly uploaded chapters, please leave your e-mail and a request for e-mail alerts in your review for this chapter. That's all. Please add any other notations in your review that'd you'd like to add… such as what you thought of this chapter… Things like that. Thanks for reading! Please review! Chapter 13 is on its way!


	13. Sad But True

Disclaimer: I _still _don't own any of the Harry Potter material. That all belongs to beloved JK. But I _do_ own Rouge Magie, Lilith Septimius, and the so-called P-L-O-T. I also own all my extra characters in their small appearances, including Immerens Hostia, Kenneth Broadmoor, and some others, though Broadmoor's Quidditch ancestry belongs to JK, as found in Quidditch Through the Ages. I also do not own Lisa Ackerley (also known as Jade) she belongs to Jade Green Eyes here at And finally, I _do not_ own the song "Sad But True" by Metallica. Metallica, or Lars, owns it, of course. PLEASE DON'T SUE MEEEE!

Note to Readers: I'm sorry. That seems to be the only thing I really can say. I'm sorry. It's just things have gotten pretty bad lately… the end of the school year was hard on me… and I'm just going through some bad mental stuff right now. I'm sorry. I thank all of you who have helped me through all of this… Laura, Sharon, Micky, Ashley, Maggie, Nessa, and all of you, thank you so much. I would have probably stopped writing altogether if it weren't for all of you. I almost did a couple of times. Things are just hard right now… I've just been so miserable lately… I think Maya Angelou said it best when she said, "There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you." Now I truly know what she meant.

I've been writing this chapter for so long, I was wondering when I'd ever finish. I remember writing parts of this in the girls' locker room at school before the summer. I remember writing in the forests of West Virginia, around a campfire with all my hillbilly relatives. I remember writing much of the Quidditch scenes on a beach in North Carolina. And most of all, I remember for so many months, every night, just before sleep made its way over my conscious, I would write. I really have no social life, do I?

You probably want another reason why this chapter is so late, so I'll give you it: I had some trouble convincing myself to write the ending of this chapter. Just out of my paranoid fear, I couldn't do it… I kept remembering this one time I was telling my parents (my mum and stepdad) about something that was going to happen in this fic. After I had told them… er… something about the final ending, my stepdad, Matt, whom I love dearly, suddenly and sharply remarked, "Well, that would never happen." Though I never said anything to him about it, that remark burned painfully into me… I kept hearing him say that over and over when I tried to write the ending to this chapter. And I couldn't do it. I'd break down to tears and I couldn't write the damn ending. I know, I'm pathetic. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't care about the probability of the things that happen in this fanfic, but just remembering how my own stepdad criticized me like that on _my own_ writing and _my own_ story… Are my ideas really that bad? I couldn't help but wonder 'would he say that again if he read this chapter?' I'm not JK! I'm not a perfect writer! As much as I want to be, I'm not perfect, I'll never be, just as I'll never be like JK… Oh well. There's my _other_ reason, along with many others, and I wrote the damn ending anyway. Be happy, 'cause with the help of my _wonderful_ plot-editor, Sharon (a.k.a. Skade), I was able to fix the horrible and improbable details… THANK YOU, SHARON!!! YOU ARE A _LIFE SAVER_!!! ALL BOW DOWN TO THE ALMIGHT SHARON!!!

But anyway, some interesting things have happened through this time of my exile… For one, my birthday was on June 22nd. That was interesting, indeed… but I did benefit from the birthday. Mostly with some lovely Mythology books that have helped me with this fanfic in more ways that you can possibly imagine. And another thing, Rouge Magie (the character) has made an appearance in another HP fanfic on this very site of , one of my all-time favorite fics, "**A Summer of Secrets**" by **Adele Elisabeth**. And "A Summer of Secrets" is the sequel to yet _another_ wonderful fic by Adele Elizabeth, "Harry Potter and the Keeper of Secrets". (READ IT!) I highly recommend you read all of Adele's fics, and I _beg_ that you please do.

Also, please read the HP fanfic, "**The Color of Jade**" by **Jade Green Eyes**, being that the main character is… well… a character that appeared in chapter 12 and will be making an appearance in this very chapter. Maybe even in chapter 14 and throughout the rest of this fic if I can help it. "The Color of Jade" also happens to be a 'sister-story' to this fic. A 'sister-story', as Jade Green Eyes has explained, is two or more stories that relate to each other and have references to each other but do not focus on the same main plot. "The Color of Jade" is the only sister story to this fic so far, so please read it and _please_ review. I really hate to see talent such talent as expressed in these fics go to waste. Okay, I think I've made enough plugs.

Oh, by the way, I've re-edited every single chapter in this fic, which are posted as of now, so hopefully the grammar mistakes aren't so bad. I even added (or took out) little bits that needed to be. _And_ I've changed the name of chapter 12, just because I hated it that much. It was hard to re-edit the first couple chapters of this fic… I just hate them so much, it's painful to read them… oh well. At least they're edited now.

Oh, and I got a puppy on July 19! My early Christmas present, I presume. She's a 9-week-old (as of July 19), black Scottish terrier (Scottie) named 'Dammit Nessie'. She's very cute. Go and take a look at her at She certainly took away a lot of writing time, but she was certainly worth it.

Oh, and this particular chapter is another attempt at a songfic. "Sad But True" by Metallica. One of my favorites. The lyrics are in the middle of the pages in Italics. I'm sure you can make them out.

Goodness, how I've rambled! Anywho, here are the personal thanks:

Kiota – How did I get so many reviews? I'm not exactly sure… 'cept the fact that I review so many fics and so many people are nice enough to return the favor. That's all, I think. But, please, in your next review, try to say _something_ about the actual story… And I _am_ sorry about this chapter's lateness…

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Anarlina – Alright, alright… I won't kill Cho… So many of you people are Pro-Cho… very strange. Oh well. Enjoy the chapter.

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The Jew in Gryffindor – No, I assure you Rouge will _not_ go to the ball with Draco… that'd ruin both of their reputations, wouldn't it? You'll just have to see, won't you? giggles

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Jade Green Eyes – Jade green eyes, yes, yes, yes… I'd like to put your fanfic persona in chapter 14 too… Just 'cause I like ya, MGD! HAPPY FING BIRTHDAY!!! Yeah, it's about time I get into my damn plot, isn't it? I've re-edited every. Single. Goddamn. Mother Fing chapter, so hopefully there're aren't as many grammar errors as before… I really like your new penname. It suits you, if I do say so myself. I am very sorry about this chapter's lateness… I just had to fix the ending because of how incredibly improbable it was before I fixed it. I _am_ very sorry. And as for me writing in a notebook instead of typing it up straightforward, I -do- get more accomplished that way, because you can write in a notebook anytime, anywhere. Computers are not always available. And I like your HP fanfic VERY MUCH, as you can probably tell from my lil' ol' plug. I hope you don't mind… I just want you to be read.

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Adele Elisabeth – I don't think I can affirm that Rouge likes George… I just put that bit in to deflate Rouge's ego… I think. Besides, who wouldn't want to hit on George? giggles Anyway, thank you so much again for Rouge's cameo appearance in your fic… It means so much to me. Thanks. Oh, and you now hold the honor of my favorite complaining review. 'Twas too funny! And you _do_ have full rights to do whatever you will to Rouge, so please feel free to 'blow her brains out' if you wish sweet smile. Please feel free to speak ill of me. I hear enough of it already, it's starting to loose it's effect on me. Suicide attempts only go so far… So I hope you are not _so_ incredibly peeved now.

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She's a Star - dun dun DUN, indeed! S'bout time I finally got into the plot, isn't it? I'm still debating with myself about Rouge/Draco. Mostly because I'm too damn paranoid… But if enough people approve it, it'll happen. We'll see.

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LittleMaggie – "The Game of Love and War and Whatnot"! I love it! Can I use that for the name for chapter 14?! PLEASE?! Anyway, thank you so much for all your compliments… You're one of my favorite reviewers, and I really mean that. You mean so much to me… but I still can't exactly grasp why you, along with some others, compare me with beloved JK. I only just turned 13-years-old! I'm only a kid! I guess I'm just a bit scared of the praise… because I don't know why I get it. I don't know what makes me such a great writer, or so you people say. I'm just afraid whatever it is… I'll loose it. Because I don't know what it is! Sorry, I'm strange, I know… But I do thank you dearly for you lovely praise. You've always been able to touch me so deeply… Oh, and I don't have a beta-reader. I don't have the patience for one. :-) Silly, I know. Oh, and by the way, who's this person who calls you sparky…? Redlion, I believe it is… Oh, and thank you for getting me, yet another reviewer. :-) Thanks. And you're such a beautiful poet… And for a final note, thanks for the therapy sessions via e-mail recently.

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nikkimarie – Thanks again for putting Rouge in your story… It was just too awesome.

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CaptinNobody – Here it is. Finally. Sorry for the long wait… But I'm also tired of waiting for chapter 3 of Ask PMP and I just _know_ it'll be up soon… or I'll just have to kill you. smiles sweetly Am I right, or am I right? But sorry, my head hasn't exploded yet.

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CloudChick – Alright, alright… Cho's not gonna die… You Pro-Cho people… strange. Anyway, here's the chapter.

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Feather – I cannot thank you enough, my dearest Laurie-chan. Your support during this hard time has meant so much to me… You've really kept me going. Sometimes I think I would have just quit writing altogether if it weren't for you. And I am very sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out… I'm really sorry. I just hope I can always depend on you to be there. Thanks. - And I still love getting NeoGreetings from you.

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PepsiAngel – Harry/Rouge or Ron/Rouge is NEVER EVER happening. I can easily assure you that. Never ever happening… ever. Well, you'll get to see what Rouge and Draco are up to in this very chapter… but the details of it shall be uncovered in chapter 14. Just in case not everyone gets it...

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Mrs Norris – Alright. Lemme give you an example of Original Character/Draco Mary-Sue-ness… Have you heard of the HP fanfic "Harry Potter and the story of Eliza"? That is the most textbook Mary-Sue fanfiction on this damned site, and Eliza, the main character, of course, falls in love with Draco and turns him into a 'good guy' gags. I know, it's very sickening. Even though that could never happen to Draco in this fic, considering that both Rouge and Draco are evil, and they will never truly love each other… I _suppose_ I could make this ficcy a _little_ Rouge/Draco… But remember, even if I do, they will never actually _love_ each other. Never. Ever. It just can't be done.

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mackenzie common ) – No, I'm not beloved JK, Mack. I'm only 13-years-old, for crying out loud! But anyway, I'm glad you like this fic as much as you do, and don't worry… I'll keep writing. I don't think I can stop now, can I?

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PotterGirl – Well, I would answer your questions… but that would be redundant, because all your questions should be answered in this very chapter. So read, and be enlightened.

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Gen Osbourne(OzzyroxIluvhim) ) – Well, I informed you, are you gonna read? I do hope so… I like hearing you say that this fic "ROCKS". Oh, and remember, WWOD! (What Would Ozzy Do?) XD

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Neshomeh – Alright. I think I have a few things to say to you… Despite the fact that I _very_ much appreciate your reviews and constructive criticism, I did get a fairly nasty tremor from most recent review… Like a tremor bad enough to convince me to give up writing. Only thanks to some of my lovely friends am I still writing. Sorry, I just take criticism too much to heart. My paranoia convinces me that even some of the most lighthearted and helpful criticism is an act of venomous censure. Never mind. Here's the answers to some of your questions:

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Where's Hagrid? I don't know. I really don't. I'm not JK, don't ask me. I'm only 13, you can't expect me to be perfect, can you? I'll try to work him into future chapters, but I can't promise anything.

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Where's Severus? Chapter seven and in future chapters. Have patience, please.

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WHY are character pairings such a big deal? Good point. They're not. Don't EVER think that character pairings will ever make a point in the plot(s), I'm just making a big deal out of them for the Yule Ball because I really don't care about character pairings, and I just want to make everyone reading this happy. That's all. I'm just too lazy and paranoid to pick 'who's going with who', so I'm making you all do it. That's the only reason.

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What's with the "kill the spare" thing? It doesn't matter anymore. I got rid of it. Just because of your review. Don't you feel special?

And as for your questions about the plot(s). I don't know. I don't really care. I'm just trying to tell a story here. I don't care that it's not perfect (okay, that's a lie… a big lie). I don't care that I'm not JK (that's a lie too). The plot doesn't matter. Just read.

And as for your comments on my poor grammar and spelling, I re-edited every single goddamn chapter, so hopefully these pathetic chapters aren't so bad anymore…

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redlion – Well, I suppose I must thank Maggie for yet another reader… God, I love her. Thank you for your reviews (by the way, you were reviewer 150. throws around confetti and stuff fing congrats) and I'm sorry so many of my chapters are so short… I'm working on that, though… I'm just getting the hang of this whole 'writing' thing. And as for your question about how many questions this fic will have… well, if my calculations are correct in my plot list… the chapters will go up into the 40s. Hope that makes you happy. And as for your question about Voldie cursing Rouge in chapter 10, he cursed her to keep her in line… or at least that's what I had in mind. It's like when kids get punishment from their parents when they disobey them. It's the same thing. Get it? And, YES!!! DEATH TO CHO AND ALL HER EVIL MARY-SUE MINIONS!!! MWAHAHAHA!!! coughs Yeah. There _will_ be an attack by Voldie _and_ an attack by Rouge later on. Be patient. And Cho is _not_ going to come around. I just said that to please the Pro-Cho people.

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Ashley – Sorry. I can't promise you a happy ending. If you don't believe Rouge saving the damn, fing day by dying _isn't_ a happy ending, I'm sorry. I'm not JK.

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The Kosmic V-Babe – MEEP! Oh god… Such wonderful compliments from one of my all-time favorite fanfic authors… I'm… I'm speechless. Well, not quite. THANK YOU!!! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!! You're too kind… you really are. It means a lot to me that you reviewed. Finally. Thank you.

We're up to 162 reviews. Can we say, "woah"? Well, most of them are just reviews pestering me to get this chapter out, not that they didn't work. They did. Very much so. Thanks to you all so much and I hope for more reviews to come… I love y'all! Thanks so much!

This chapter is dedicated to my lovely, punk-rocking friend, Nessa, for always being so persistent in keeping me writing, and, of course, for her birthday on July 21. Happy Birthday, MGD, and I hope you enjoy this chapter (besides the fact that it's a Metallica songfic) as much as I had fun at your awesome party.

I'd also like to send out a 'Happy Birthday!' to LittleMaggie, who turned fifteen on July 25. Happy Birthday, Maggie!

Oh, and one last thanks to two people: My mom, for giving me the idea for the Exhaurio potion, and to Sharon, for helping me perfect it. Thank you both. And an _extra_ thank you to Sharon for helping me fix the details to the ending of this chapter.

And one last shout-out to Jason. I hope you feel better, Jason! I'm still worried about you!

Okay. I'm done. Read, and as the Sirius marketing division would say, "share and enjoy!" (Read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. Please.)

Chapter 13: Sad But True

Hey

I'm your life

I'm the one who takes you there

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"I assure you it will look like an accident. It is_ only Quidditch. You said yourself to stay ' inconspicuous', so there's no point in rushing to drastic measures. Keep it subtle. More damage will be done to Potter this way, Father, emotional scars that'll probably last him a lifetime, and Dumbledore won't suspect a thing. Even he can't know where Potter's affections lie. Potter's emotions are the best weapons to use against him."_

"Then proceed with uttermost care. I still have my doubts about this plan of yours. And if you, young Malfoy, Crabbe, or Goyle are found out... Even the slightest slip that the accident was planned-"

"Nothing will go wrong, my lord_, have a little faith in your _daughter_."_

Rouge turned away from Voldemort, but Wormtail blocked her path.

"Are you tired of always being afraid, Rouge? Is that what's brought you to this...?"

Rouge awoke with a cry muffled by the pillows she had buried her face into. Her hair clung matted to her head with cold sweat, and tears stained her face. She sighed and dried her tears with a sweeping movement of her hand, as though she had done it a million times before, as though it were a routine. Rouge was sure it was about as routine for her to dry her tears every morning as it was for Lavender and Parvati to put on makeup. It was like covering up her misery with the back of her hand to go through another day of lies and façades unnoticed. But as Rouge touched her face she recoiled at her own hand.

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My hands, she thought,_ they're so cold._

Nightmares were what caused her to wake up in this state. Not exactly nightmares, but recent memories out to haunt her with guilt. She cursed her conscience. The current 'dream-feature' was a meeting in the forbidden forest with Voldemort that was held only a little more than a month ago. Rouge had to arrange the meeting herself since it was her own plan being held for discussion. Even though Draco was an accomplice in the plan, he was blissfully (at least for him) absent at the meeting and Rouge wasn't in the least surprised.

But her conscience must have thought she had been an unusually good little girl lately because the dream was thoughtfully edited of her father's curses that she had to dodge. But Voldemort wasn't her nightmare anymore; she was on his good side for now. It was Wormtail's words that haunted her. "_Are you tired of always being afraid, Rouge? Is that what's brought you to this...?"_

But what else is there to be brought to?

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Scars, Rouge told herself with bitter acceptance_, new scars, bruises, and paranoid fear._

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Hey

I'm your life

I'm the one who cares

She turned on her side, opening the tightly drawn curtains of her four-poster bed.

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When it comes to scars and obedience, the latter is the better choice, she thought with the firmness of a final word to the regretful part of her own mind.

She peered through the peek in the curtains at the small, stand-up calendar she kept on her bedside table. Saturday, December 16, it read. She flipped her calendar back to November, just to take a look. Three different dates were marked with three different events, just to remind herself of what had happened these last few weeks. She flipped the calendar back to December, where one of the only two marks on that month was on that very day, where it clearly read in tiny letters, '_Quidditch Match - Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin._' She looked over at her watch that lay on its side beside the calendar, and for once, she wasn't late, which had become another customary routine.

Taking her time, she drew back the curtains and winced at the hazy morning light as it reached her eyes. Cursing the light, she crept over to her trunk at the end of her bed as if to not wake Lavender and Parvati, but with the air of a child sneaking over to the cookie jar away from mother's watchful eye. Hermione had already left the dormitory, her bed left not just neatly made, but perfectly made. It had become an unspoken competition between them, seeing who could rise the earliest and whose bed could be made the tidiest. Rouge hadn't won since Halloween and she grew to learn that losing was her role to play.

But there were more important games to be played today.

Rouge dressed quickly, pulling on the white blouse and the gray, knee-length skirt that went under the school robes. In short, she wore the simple parts of the Hogwarts uniform, even though the uniform wasn't required on weekends. She didn't want to be individual today; she didn't want to stand out in any way, she wanted to be inconspicuous. She warily glanced around the sedate dormitory one last time out of habitual paranoia before turning her full attention to her trunk.

Piles of folded robes and neglected books lay in the bottom of Rouge's trunk, and she pushed them aside, pulling out a simple, silver flask. She held it gingerly in her hands as though it were something delicate and precious. Not the flask, but the potion inside it was her only proof of friendship, or at least that's what Rouge told herself.

Saturday, November 4, her calendar read, '_the meeting._'

__

They

they betray

I'm your only true friend now

"You don't really want to do his bidding, do you, Rouge? This can't be agreeing with your moral sense," Severus questioned her just after the meeting in the forest that Rouge so frequently dreamed about, and Rouge admitted to Severus that he was right. He then handed her the flask that she held in her hands now.

"It's an Exhaurio potion," he explained. "An emotion-altering solution. It abolishes of regret, guilt, misery, fear, and other such negative emotions. Cleanses the body of them, so to speak. It should help you manage that disinclined instinct."

Rouge stared at the potion incredulously, sending Severus the same look. "Why would you want to help me, Severus?"

The corners of Severus's mouth quivered into a smile that didn't suit him. "We are both Death Eaters, are we not? We're part of the same family, _our Lord's _family, and it's our duty to look out for one another," he stated righteously and Rouge was taken aback by the unnatural kindness and sweetness in his voice. _Specious reasoning_, Rouge thought, but couldn't help but being drawn in by the thought of being looked out for.

"Come to me when the flask empties, but only after hours, and come _alone_. We need to keep this a secret – a secret from everyone. Even from our fellow Death Eaters," Severus instructed, and Rouge was disconcerted by how much it still sounded like his usual, professor-like commands.

"I still don't see why _you_ would want to help _me_..." Rouge trailed off as Severus suddenly clapped a hand to her shoulder, making her stop. He was bent over so that they were eye-to-eye and a knavish grin spread across his face.

"Because I'm your friend."

__

They

they'll betray

I'm forever there

__

Friends and secrets, Rouge thought and smiled to herself as she unscrewed the lid of the flask. The whole concept appealed to her inevitable, instinctual teenage girlishness. A clouded mist hovered over the rim of the flash, emitting from the opaque, white potion. It smelled strongly of something almost like mint, and the mist wasn't just white, but speckled with green and brown. In Rouge's eyes, it was beautiful.

She swallowed a mouthful, not needing more than a sip, and the Exhaurio potion's effect was almost instantaneous. Like the smoothest of untouched water it slipped down her throat, and like ice against bare and vulnerable skin, it froze her from the inside. She felt frost-like and tingling numbness spreading inside her, but Rouge welcomed it. She wanted to feel numb. She didn't want to feel anymore.

The shades of gray from the stone dormitory walls and the weak morning sunlight from the window swirled around her like water down the drain as the cold reached her senses. Rouge fell to her knees, leaning on her trunk for support as the feeling of emptiness overshadowed all other feeling.

The room slowly came back into focus, flickering in and out, but clear enough for her to stand. Her hands trembled violently as she screwed the lid of the flask back on and she carefully put it back in her trunk. Rouge shut her eyes, waiting for the world around her to become steady, breathing heavily and swaying lightly. Opening her eyes again slowly, she eyed herself in the full-body-length mirror that Lavender kept on the opposite wall. Her hair was slightly tousled, fighting the sleekness it once had. Her skin was no longer delicate alabaster, but deathly pale, and the whites of her eyes were bloodshot.

__

Red with crying, she told herself,_ they're red because I've been crying._

Rouge tried not to feel frightened by her own appearance. In fact, she didn't have to. The Exhaurio potion rid her of fear, but something in the back of her mind told her she should be afraid, telling her that this wasn't right, and she instantly rounded upon herself.

__

What's the matter? Rouge thought angrily, her hand balled up into fists, shaking with unexplainable rage. _Have you forgotten what you look like? This is _you.

She stopped and mentally shook herself out of frustration. Drinking the Exhaurio potion left her feeling empty, as it was supposed to, but it also left her feeling unstable. She'd have sudden, inexplicable outbursts where she'd unexpectedly be overcome with one of the emotions the potion hid. But Rouge always found a way to overlook these outbursts as a problem since they never lasted long.

Once she had regained her equanimity,Rouge soundlessly crept out of the dormitory. She indifferently wondered as she stumbled blearily down the stairs, her coordination failing her, why she'd have those outbursts. Severus hadn't warned her of any side effects. From what he told her, the Exhaurio potion was perfectly safe, and Rouge blindly believed him without even the slightest query. She nonchalantly decided it was nothing to worry about and she gave it no more thought.

It may have been earlier than the usual time Rouge would awake, but she was still very late for breakfast. Students were crowding out of the Great Hall, but Rouge quickly dashed in and grabbed a piece of toast smeared with marmalade, as she was still trying to acquire a taste for British food. It was more difficult than you'd suspect. She joined the herd of students as they went through the Entrance Hall and she watched them with boredom as she ate her toast, ignoring the back of her mind as it told her she should be feeling fearfully worried and guilty about something.

She mindlessly listened to her classmates' chatter of "_Ravenclaw's gonna flatten Slytherin!_" and so on. About three-fourths of the student population supported blue flags and rosettes, but a couple of times, out of the corner of her eye, Rouge swore she saw a black rose pinned to someone's chest instead of blue. But before she got a second look, the flower-in-question would return to being blue, if it ever was anything else. She mentally shook herself again, harder this time, convincing herself that her eyes were playing tricks on her, and nothing more.

The students marched across the grounds to their house's side of the Quidditch stands and Rouge found a seat in the highest row of the Gryffindor side. She glanced around the stands and her eyes fell on the large group of Gryffindors seated in front of her. Under normal influences she would have looked away, for the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team, along with Hermione, was that group.

Rouge had recently developed a feeling of deep and bitter anger and ill will towards the Quidditch team (and she never liked Hermione much anyway). Though she knew it wasn't _their_ fault, she couldn't help but feel bitter resentment towards them since she hadn't made the Keeper position, and the reason for it didn't make her infuriation much better.

Wednesday, November 8, she remembered her calendar read, '_medical examination._'

__

I'm your dream, make you real

I'm your eyes when you must steal

I'm your pain when you can't feel

sad but true

Exactly a week after the Quidditch tryouts, Madam Hooch requested her to have a medical examination by Madam Pomfrey due to the questionable state of Rouge's shoulder, especially since it was only a Quaffle that had hit her and had caused her so much pain. Reluctantly, Rouge went to the examination, but her stubbornness made it far more than limited. She refused to answer any of Madam Pomfrey's questions about how she had gotten so many cuts and bruises, and why she had never gone to the Hospital Wing before to be treated. Hesitantly, Rouge let her heal a few of her superficial lacerations, but only the gash on her shoulder and the few injuries that weren't hidden by her robes. 

Madam Pomfrey mumbled and muttered questioningly to herself as she tended to Rouge, as though trying to piece together the causes and effects, though with some obvious difficulty. There were also times when Madam Pomfrey would just _watch_ Rouge, taking note of her physical expressions, gestures, reactions and such, all observed with carefully narrowed eyes and noted with a busy quill, but Rouge still failed to see the importance of any of this.

Frankly, Rouge's cuts and bruises seemed to be the only thing physically and medically wrong with her, but she still didn't make the cut for the Quidditch team, and it confused and annoyed her greatly. But Rouge hadn't speculated that the rest of the examination could possibly be the reason for it. This wasn't completely irrational logic because nothing much seemed to happen during the rest of the examination. At least Rouge thought so.

After Madam Pomfrey had healed Rouge as much as the stubborn patient would allow, the suspicious nurse brought out a potion in a goblet with wisps of steam drifting off the top. It was dark banana yellow and so thick that, for a moment, Rouge thought she'd have to chew it before she swallowed.

Madam Pomfrey shoved the goblet in Rouge's hands and she stared at it.

"I have to _drink_ this?" she asked uncertainly.

"Just drink," Madam Pomfrey commanded.

Rouge took a deep breath and took the largest swallow of the potion that she could. She shut her eyes defensively and expected a foul medicinal taste, like an obstinate child taking their medicine from a nanny, but she didn't taste anything. For a moment Rouge wondered if she had really drank any of the potion at all, but she could feel it dripping down her throat. So instinctively, she took another swallow, and another, and another, but she still couldn't taste the potion. The only thing that the potion seemed to do was give vague warmth in her throat and chest, but not much to take note of.

Once she had finished the entire goblet, she looked up at Madam Pomfrey with an expectantly nonplussed look. Madam Pomfrey returned it, waiting for _something _to happen.

Then, _something_ happened.

__

I'm your dream, mind astray

I'm your eyes while you're away

I'm your pain while you repay

you know it's sad but true

The world around Rouge suddenly went sharp. Every line and every detail of the world suddenly became so clear that it was impossible to miss even the smallest edge. Her depth perception throbbed until it was so precise that she couldn't tell what was near and what was far. Colors screamed, lights roared, and the world's complexity hit her full on. Her mind raced too fast for her to follow. It was too much. Everything was too much.

With a whimpered cry, her hands flew to her eyes and she tightly shut them, the empty goblet falling to the floor with a loud clatter. She had to block everything out. She couldn't give into this. The warmth from the potion in her throat and chest increased. Hotter and hotter it became until she felt her collar bone burn. Rouge began to tear up with pain and she became angry with herself at her display of weakness.

Her mental berating and raging flare of sudden emotion only made her cry bitter harder sobs. Through bleary eyes, Rouge saw Madam Pomfrey shove another potion goblet in her hand with another order to drink. Rouge obeyed immediately, finishing the potion in a single gulp. It could have been plain water for all Rouge knew, but she also didn't seem in the right mind to tell. She simply sat there, silent, still, and in minor shock. Her mind had gone totally blank, and she tried to recount what had just happened in the last minute and it didn't quite work. Her mind went from drinking the first potion to drinking the next with nothing in-between. Her mind merely couldn't take in all she had seen and felt in that minute, thus leaving a gaping hole in her memory.

Another minute passed as Rouge's mind attempted to regain normal composure after its unrecorded tremor, with only the sound of Madam Pomfrey's quill scratching away madly in the background. After Rouge seemed to sustain a normal state of mind, Madam Pomfrey's quill fell silent but ready, and she cleared her throat to get Rouge's attention.

Rouge's stare slowly drifted up to meet Madam Pomfrey's, her dark blue eyes still somewhat glazed-over and her bottom lip trembling.

"Now, tell me, Miss Magie," Madam Pomfrey began with a cough to cover up an accusing tone, "have you been previously, or are you currently taking some form of ... _medication_?"

A thought of the Exhaurio potion Severus had given her ran across Rouge's mind, but trailing behind it were Severus's words, "_keep this a secret... a secret from everyone._" So Rouge obeyed by firmly and vehemently denying such an implication – almost _too_ vehement, Madam Pomfrey thought – and Madam Pomfrey raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Ah," she uttered, her quill once again scribbling away. She looked up occasionally, eyeing Rouge suspiciously as though looking for something, for proof, for assurance, for some explanation to prove what Madam Pomfrey was guessing and to make the pieces of this puzzle fall in line.

"What about cosmetic charms?" Madam Pomfrey pressed on, and Rouge became petulant.

"Need you ask that, Madam Pomfrey?" Rouge snapped at the nurse. "I'm a girl and a _teenage_ girl at that. Do you really find it necessary to ask whether I use _cosmetic charms_?"

Madam Pomfrey blinked and stared peevishly at Rouge.

"I see," she claimed, once again taking note with her quill.

__

You

you're my mask

you're my cover, my shelter

Madam Pomfrey resumed questioning and with each question she'd look up expectantly at Rouge as though waiting for something. Possibly waiting for her to slip, but Rouge failed to see the importance of the questions. Rouge seemed impatient, exasperated, and with a teenage air of '_so what?_' and Madam Pomfrey wasn't much better. She was irritated with Rouge's sarcastic and recalcitrant attitude, and she also wasn't forbearingwith Rouge's petty answers in this pointless questioning, because Madam Pomfrey already had all the information she needed for her proof.

As soon as Madam Pomfrey and Rouge had had their fill of each other, Madam Pomfrey dismissed Rouge from the Hospital Wing, but Rouge couldn't help but feel that there was something Madam Pomfrey wasn't telling her. She ignored the feeling just as she did with all of her other feelings with the help of her beloved Exhaurio potion, and was left to wait for the results of the Quidditch tryouts.

Monday, November 13, she remembered her calendar read, '_Quidditch Tryout Results._'

__

You

you're my mask

you're the one who's blamed

It was only five days later when the results were announced and Rouge was, to say the least, less than happy when Transfiguration ended, the class in which Professor McGonagall had announced the results. Rouge stormed out the door of the classroom as the bell rang, firmly deciding to make a visit to Madam Hooch's office after the day's classes were over, while forcing herself to ignore the distant cheers for that certain, new, redheaded Keeper that seemed so expected by everyone... except Rouge.

She made quite an entrance when she had finally found Madam Hooch's office at the end of the day, bursting through the door, throwing every French swear she could think of every which way and Madam Hooch was less than impressed. She stared placidly at Rouge, waiting for her craze to die down. When Rouge seemed to be the calmest she could be, with testy sedation, Madam Hooch spoke up.

"May I help you?"

Rouge glowered at her.

"Why didn't I get on the team?"

"Have you bothered to consider, possibly even attempted to fathom that you may just be inept for the position?"

"No." Rouge was past being merely incorrigible.

Calmly, Madam Hooch reached into her desk and pulled out a simple file. She fingered through the contents and pulled out a single piece of parchment, reading it silently as Rouge waited impatiently.

"You're that Magie girl, aren't you?" Madam Hooch asked, looking up over the edge of the parchment, and she could tell she was correct by how Rouge narrowed her eyes. Madam Hooch continued to read. When she answered, she didn't bother looking up.

"...Medically disqualified," Madam Hooch quoted from the parchment, and Rouge froze, but it didn't take long for her anger to change its direction and take charge.

"Medically disqualified?!" she shrieked. "How can I be _medically_ disqualified?! I'm perfectly healthy! I'm _fine_!"

"Now that is something neither of us are to decide," Madam Hooch interrupted sharply, riled by and unable to take Rouge's disrespect any longer. "This decision came straight from your medical examination by Madam Pomfrey, a _trained professional_, and that's the final word. Besides, I think Weasley will be a fine Keeper."

__

Do

do my work

do my dirty work, scapegoat

It was indeed the final word and all other words Rouge said on the matter were brushed aside and ignored. So after Madam Hooch dismissed Rouge from her office, Rouge thundered down the corridor. She saw Ron, alone for once, out of the corner of her eye, but she neglected him with disregard even as he approached her. She didn't want to take his pity or give him his deserved praise, so Rouge rudely quickened her pace, easily losing Ron down the corridor.

Rouge admitted that over the days since the Quidditch tryouts, she and Ron had grown to be rather good friends, but every time they met there was a feeling of nervousness, as though there was a cloud of guilt surrounding them. But they tried to be friends and became quite close, for a few days, at least, until the day they found out the results of the Quidditch tryouts when Rouge finally lost Ron and she found Draco instead.

__

Do

do my deeds

for you're the one who's shamed

It was raining on the Quidditch field now. Not exactly raining, but a dreary sort of prickle. The skies had bulged with rain for months, but had only recently started to actually rain, as though the water in the gray sky had been waiting all this time to fall for the perfect melodramatic effect. Rain could obviously choose its timing quite well, but the rain still couldn't dampen the spirits of a certain Quidditch-loving Gryffindor, Harry Potter.

Fourteen figures marched onto the misty field through the veil of trivial rainfall, seven robed in blue, and seven robed in green. The crowd gave a wild cheer, just a motion blur of waving arms and colored flags. It was the excitement only a Quidditch game could bring.

Harry could single out Draco Malfoy from the figures clad in green, and to his astonishment, Draco looked straight up at him, as though he didn't even have to find him in the crowd, as though he _knew_ he'd be sitting right there. Harry blinked. No, Draco couldn't be looking at him... He looked around, trying to follow Draco's gaze, and his eyes fell on the blue-eyed girl sitting behind him. Rouge. It had to be Rouge Draco was looking at... But why? And how did he distinguish her in the crowd so quickly...?

__

I'm your dream, make you real

I'm your eyes when you must steal

I'm your pain when you can't feel

sad but true

Harry turned back around in his seat, shaking his head, completely confounded, but as he turned he saw that Ron, who was sitting beside Harry, was looking behind where they sat as well. No, he wasn't just _looking_, he was _glaring_ behind them. The new, redheaded Gryffindor Keeper must have traced Draco's stare as well and was now glaring at Rouge, who looked away very quickly. How odd.

This didn't help Harry puzzlement. The last time he checked, Ron and Rouge were friends, despite Harry's own liking, but now... Ron was glaring at her. Something must have happened between them, though Ron never said anything about it... How _very_ odd.

Ron had turned back around again to watch the start of the game, but Harry was still watching Rouge. He could distinctly hear her mutter to herself, rather resignedly, in a mechanical manner of recitation, "..._I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them._" What was that suppose to mean? Harry turned back around in his seat, away from Rouge, shaking his head once more. How _very_ odd _indeed_.

The shrill scream of Madam Hooch's silver whistle echoed through the stands, matching the encouraging yells and cheers from the crowds. Fourteen blurs of green and blue shot into the air, and the commentary began:

"And they're off! It's the first game of the Quidditch season and it's _Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin_! This match has been awaited with much anticipation because of Quidditch's long and _unsought_ absence over the Tri Wizard Tournament, and I'm sure we'll get quite a long-hoped-for show...!"

Lee Jordan's usual commentary rang through the stands and the field over the noise of the crowd and the patter of rain. As always, Jordan was closely watched over by Professor McGonagall, who was hoping she wouldn't have Jordan's Gryffindor favoritism to deal with in this match, considering there was no one to favor besides Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Oh, how naïve these Professors were in the ways of schoolyard sports and rivalry.

"Ravenclaw in possession. One of the new Ravenclaw Chasers, Immerens Hostia, tears up the field towards the Slytherin goal posts. This is Hostia's first year on the team, though he's been a reserve for two years now, and just to think he's only a fourth year. Hostia really needed the sudden wave of graduations Ravenclaw had last year to give him a chance for the position. 'Good thing too. I hear his father was giving Dumbledore some trouble because Immerens wasn't on the team, and no one wants to be on the bad side of an Auror... er... Just kidding, Professor."

Hostia was definitely tearing up the field, dodging all other players with a swerve of his broom and a swish of his blue robes. But just as he almost reached the Slytherin scoring area, he met something he hadn't intended on. A large, brutal, green-robed giant of a something who rammed sides with Hostia, and seized the Quaffle as Hostia was knocked off course by the force of the blow. A moan of disappointment came from the Ravenclaw-supporters, and despite their complaints and yells of 'FOUL!', Madam Hooch awarded nothing.

__

I'm your dream, mind astray

I'm your eyes while you're away

I'm your pain while you repay

you know it's sad but true

"Aww, and the Quaffle is taken by the Slytherin Captain and Chaser, Marcus Flint, who's now on his _tenth_ year here at Hogwarts! Can't seem to pass your classes, can you, Flint?" Jordan's commentary turned into taunting and he was given a harsh warning glance from McGonagall. Jordan continued with a nervous cough.

"Flint makes his way back up toward the Ravenclaw goal posts, dodges the Ravenclaw Chasers, and passes the Quaffle to Slytherin Chaser, Warrington... but, no! Warrington drops the Quaffle as he's nearly hit by a Bludger, sent by the Ravenclaw Beater, Kenneth Broadmoor. Slytherin's Montague intercepts the Quaffle, but is closely followed by Broadmoor.

"It seems that the new Ravenclaw team is depending on blood for their defense skill this year... no, I don't mean any offense to anyone by that, Professor. I just mean to say that one of the new players in their new batch, Ravenclaw Beater, Kenneth Broadmoor, has Quidditch ancestry. Kenneth happens to be the grandson of Kevin Broadmoor, who with his brother, Karl, were world famous Beaters for the Falmouth Falcons, whose hard play antics resulted in no less than _fourteen_ suspensions from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Don't forget the Falcons' club motto, folks! '_Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads_'_._"

The game currently being played between the fourteen Hogwarts Quidditch-players would have made Kevin and Karl Broadmoor proud. There was much shoving and leering that suggested malevolence among opposing Chasers, and the two Ravenclaw Beaters were using brutality that was worthy of even the Falmouth Falcons. With the way things were going, it would be quite a surprise if a few heads didn't break. In any case, the rain seemed completely unnoticed and appeared to have to effect on the game whatsoever. All the players were too well trained to be daunted by weather.

Montague, with the Quaffle under his arm, soared down the field towards the Ravenclaw end, trying desperately to loose the two Beaters tailing him. He looked back at the two every couple of seconds, waiting and timing for some means of escape, but when he looked back for the _nth_ time, after almost flying into one of his fellow Chasers, there was only Terry Boot, the other Ravenclaw Beater, in pursuit. Where'd the other one go?

Montague was answered, mere feet from the goal posts, by the loud, satisfying '_crack_' of a bat against metal and the painful '_smack_' of metal against bone when a large, hard something hit him square in the upper spine.

The commentary soon caught up.

__

Hate

I'm your hate

I'm your hate when you want love

"Montague of Slytherin is about to score...! Wait...! No! HA! Montague drops the Quaffle as he's hit by a speeding Bludger sent by Ravenclaw Beater, Kenneth Broadmoor! Good show, Ravenclaw Beaters, Good show! Ravenclaw Chaser, Stewart Ackerley – a second year, this being his first year on the team – gains possession and is speeding up the field, dodges Flint and Warrington, swerves around Montague, who's the one rolled over on his broom – Don't worry, Montague. Severe back damage builds character. Heaven knows you need it... Only joking, Professor!

"Ackerley enters the scoring area – where _are_ those Slytherin Beaters?! – He approaches Slytherin Keeper, Bletchley, Ackerley shoots! Bletchley dives...!"

There was an agonizing silence over the stands as Jordan paused for dramatic effect, drawing breath.

"RAVENCLAW SCORES!"

The crowd exploded. The jubilant cheers drowned out even some of the Slytherins' most venomous hisses. Ravenclaw had the first score after Quidditch's year of absence, and to top it off, it was against Slytherin. It was just another way good conquered evil, even on the Quidditch pitch.

"Slytherin in possession," Jordan continued over the gradually dying noise of the crowd. "Warrington speeds toward the Ravenclaw end. _Ooh!_ Near miss from a Bludger sent by Terry Boot. Passes to Flint. Passes to Montague. Back to Warrington, nice formation there. Warrington enters the scoring area, he approaches Lisa Ackerley – Come on, Jade!"

"_Jordan_," McGonagall growled, "no favoritism, no matter _what_ houses."

"But of course, Professor. I wouldn't even _dream_ of such a thing as _favoritism-_"

"Just get on with the commentary, Jordan."

"Right-o, Professor. Warrington's gathering momentum, he _jets_ forward, he shoots...!"

Dramatic pause.

__

Pay

pay the price

pay, for nothing's fair

"LISA ACKERLEY SAVES!"

Rejoicing ensued.

"And an _expert_ save from the new Ravenclaw Captain, Lisa Ackerley, or also known around school as '_Jade_'," Jordan continued, fighting down laughter at Slytherin's poor performance. "This is the sixth-year-Ackerley's first year as Captain of the team, taking over for Roger Davies, who was just recently _stripped_ of his position on the team due to – what was it, Professor? _Immoral behavior_, wasn't it?" Jordan prompted, obviously grinning, but quickly changed the subject back to Lisa to slake McGonagall's wrath, "This is the start of Jade's fifth year on the team and we should expect to see a fine Quidditch season with her unrivaled talent as a Keeper.

"Jade passes to Ravenclaw Chaser, Mandy Brocklehurst, a fifth year. Brocklehurst heads toward the Slytherin end, ducks under Warrington and Montague, but Flint seems to be coming to intercept her her... He's gonna crash into her...! FOUL!" Jordan ended in shout.

Flint had come from the side with a look of intent to collide, but he slowed just before he hit Brocklehurst, and jammed his elbow in her stomach instead. Flint also seized the opportunity as Brocklehurst rolled over in pain on her broom, to take the Quaffle. But the stands soon joined in the cries.

"COBBING!" they yelled. "FOUL!"

Madam Hooch's silver whistle screeched as she flew up to meet the two Chasers.

"Penalty shot to Ravenclaw for Cobbing – excessive use of elbows!" she awarded Brocklehurst over the blaring agreement of the Ravenclaw-supporters, the objections of the Slytherins, and the patter of steadily increasing rain. Flint hardly had a chance to protest before Madam Hooch headed back down to the muddy ground and Mandy ripped the Quaffle from his hands with a triumphant smirk. Flint simply gaped bitterly.

Harry cheered right along with the crowd, occasional laughs mixed in with his bubbly happiness, but he couldn't help but feel perturbed by the presence of a silence behind him among the racket of the stands. He looked back at the source of this silence and there, still right behind him, was Rouge. Her eyes were transfixed on the game... no, above the game. Harry turned to follow her piercing gaze. _Far_ above the game.

There were four flying figures up there that seemed to escape the rest of the school's notice. Harry could barely tell who they were it was so far up. He scanned the field to see who was missing, and he soon identified the specks of movement in the stormy sky, the great masses of gray making it difficult to make them out, as both the Seekers and both the Slytherin Beaters. But what was Draco Malfoy, Cho Chang, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle doing all the way up there?

Who Harry recognized as Draco was the highest of the four, and Cho was closely tailing him. This didn't surprise Harry. Cho always followed her opposing Seeker; it was her well-known technique to find the Snitch. But the Snitch hadn't been seen once this entire game, and why was Draco leading Cho so far up over the game...? Harry pondered this. No, Draco wasn't _leading_ Cho, was he? She was just following him... right?

Harry scanned the field again, and noticed that there was only one Bludger mixed in with the war of six Chasers, two Keepers, and two Beaters. The other Bludger was being hit back and forth between the two figures Harry guessed to be the Slytherin Beaters, Crabbe and Goyle. They were hitting the Bludger back and forth... like they were trying to keep it with them... like they were saving it for later.

Only one word drifted across Harry's mind:

HUH?

__

Hey

I'm your life

I'm the one who took you here

But the following words of Lee Jordan's commentary got Harry's attention, as well as the rest of the stands.

"...and Warrington takes another Bludger sent its way by Broadmoor and – Wait a minute. Was that the Snitch?!"

Harry's heart leapt with excitement. Cho was _much_ of a better Seeker than Malfoy. She just _had_ to catch the Snitch. It's just the way things were. Good always triumphed over evil. That's just the way things are.

And how true that was.

And that's what caused Rouge to have a sudden throe of fear. No! Not now! This could ruin everything! Rouge's panicked gaze jerked up from where the Snitch was fluttering near the ground, only a glint of gold, and her eyes met with Draco's despite the hundred feet between them.

This wasn't part of the plan. The Snitch... they hadn't planned on the Snitch showing up so soon.

All effects of the Exhaurio potion seemed to disappear, leaving Rouge scared senseless. The whole plan, _her_ whole plan, what _she_ worked on for over a _month_, could so easily be ruined if they didn't do something. Cho was already in a dive, racing towards the ground. They had to do something, and they had to do something _now_.

Rouge stared from Cho to Draco, and he could read what Rouge's expression said even from how far he was above the game.

'_Do it and do it NOW._'

__

Hey

I'm your life

and I no longer care

Draco turned to look at Crabbe and Goyle, who were densely staring up at him for instruction, and he swerved on his broomstick at an incisively certain angle with practiced precision. Crabbe and Goyle, surprisingly enough, recognized this as their cue and acted immediately. Even _they_ could follow planned orders with enough drilling and practice.

And Rouge's mind, once again, was lulled. Despite the panic she saw in her accomplices, and the panic she knew she should feel herself, the Exhaurio potion took control and her mind was yet again distant from reality's pressing matters.

A few of these pressing matters tried to make their presence noticed in Rouge's mind, a few of these being, '_What if those Beaters screw up?_', '_What if the height is miscalculated?_', '_What if Cho catches the Snitch?_' All of these 'what-ifs' swirled around Rouge's clouded mind in vain, but one thought penetrated the Exhaurio potion's effects in her current state.

'_I _really_ hope that house-elf did its job._'

Thursday, December 14, she remembered her calendar read, '_employ a house-elf._'

__

I'm your dream, make you real

I'm your eyes when you must steal

I'm your pain when you can't feel

sad but true

Rouge waited patiently in the Gryffindor common room, sitting in an armchair in front of the smoldering ashes in the fireplace, only a few embers surviving to shed their luminous light as the wee hours of Friday morning crept over the darkened Gryffindor Tower.

And there she sat waiting, but not of no avail, as she knew it would be. Darkness still flooded the common room, but flickers of movement could be made out as they came though the portrait hole. As the barely audible padding of tiny feet advanced upon the fireplace, a group of three or four creatures could be seen in the ill light. Bat-eared. Wide-eyed. Pencil-nosed. Long-fingered and footed.

House-elves.

All wearing tea towels stamped with the Hogwarts crest, neatly tied like togas, they saw to the fire with expert silence and care. They swept the hearth, dusted the mantelpiece, and got a blaze kindled in the fireplace with such swiftness and precaution as though it were as natural for them to clean as it was to breathe. They _lived_ for their work, and Rouge knew it.

Within minutes, the common room was pristine and immaculate, and Rouge went completely unnoticed. The small flock of creatures passed her armchair on their way back to the portrait hole, but one straggled behind, brushing at a near nonexistent particle of dust on the carpet at the edge of Rouge's armchair. With a quick reach and grab of her arm, Rouge had the solitary house-elf dangling in front of her, holding it by its arm. The dangling house-elf gave a small, high-pitched squeak, but gave no protest of this treatment. Rouge regarded it with a critical stare.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"B-B-Barmy," the house-elf stammered, taken aback by being snatched up so suddenly without warning, and by the peculiar calmness in Rouge's tone when she had taken hold of poor Barmy in mid-stride with such urgency.

"Barmy? Well, I have a little job for you, Barmy," Rouge stated in that same oddly calm tone. "Do you know where Madame Hooch's office is?"

"Yes, miss, Barmy knows-"

"Good. And do you know the locked cabinet where she keeps the crate of Quidditch balls?"

"Yes, miss, but Barm-" Barmy was interrupted again as Rouge shoved a small vial of a cream-like potion in his free hand.

"Now, listen, Barmy. You are going to get into Madame Hooch's office, open that cabinet, open that crate, and pour the contents of that vial on the Bludger on your _left_. A Bludger is the black iron ball that should be shaking slightly beneath its restraints. Can you do this for me, Barmy?"

Barmy gave a lame, quivering nod and Rouge beamed at him with a sort of manic happiness.

"Excellent, Barmy. Brilliant," she lilted merrily. "Because you know I don't want to see Professor Dumbledore about you and your habit of refusing to work... You know it would pain me to request that you be freed," she threatened cheerfully, and after this, Barmy nodded with much more enthusiasm, his big brown eyes much bigger and his bat-ears flapping. Well, so much for coaxing him. It still worked.

"No, no, _no_, miss. Barmy _is_ doing work for miss," Barmy squeaked. "Miss isn't needing to see Barmy's master, no, no, she isn't."

Rouge chortled to herself as she set the threatened but dutiful house-elf back on the floor and watched him clutch the vial to his chest, turning to exit through the portrait hole.

"Oh, and one last thing, Barmy. A bit of advice, really." Rouge smiled demonically to herself. "It's really quite an advantage to have a friend. Especially one who can make potions."

Rouge trusted that Barmy, in fact, _had_ done the job she had given him since she found the potion vial she had given him, empty on her nightstand later Friday morning. And besides, house-elves were such agreeable creatures and servants, never once had a house-elf disobeyed her before, and nothing was different now.

__

I'm your truth, telling lies

I'm your reasoned alibis

I'm inside open your eyes

I'm you

The Slytherin Beaters formatted themselves side-by-side, they aimed their bats and swung in unison, hitting their lone, captive Bludger with a '_thunk!_' 

It sped like a bullet after its blue-robed quarry, and, having an advantage with its speed, it caught up quickly. Cho, focused entirely on the Snitch, which was still fluttering a hundred feet below, never saw it coming.

'_WHACK!_'

The pursuing Bludger hit her from behind between her shoulder blades, upsetting her balance on her Comet 260 as she dived towards the ground. Her grip on her broom handle failed her and she slipped, falling headfirst to the ground. She screamed, flailing her arms helplessly as she hurtled to the ground through the trivial drizzle of rain.

The commentary died, the racket of the stands died, and the battles between the Chasers came to a halt as well. A wide-eyed shock seeped through the Quidditch field, as the only sound left across the grounds became Cho's piercing screams.

Rouge held her breath. As all eyes of the school were on Cho as she dropped ever faster, Rouge watched the tarnished Bludger expectantly. The Bludger that had rebounded away from its prey after its impact on the unfortunate Ms. Chang was now headed instinctively toward the nearest player, but before it reached within a few good yards from its next victim, it stopped, hanging in midair.

For an instant, the Bludger just hung suspended there, then began to vibrate in protest beneath its invisible, intangible restraints, fighting to move forward. And as though the Bludger had been testing the strength of a giant rubber band, it slung backwards with the force of a cannon back towards its blue-robed, black-haired target, and with much better aim.

A stomach-turning '_crrraaaccccccckk_' echoed through the Quidditch pitch as the tampered Bludger made impact on Cho Chang for the second time, but this time to the head.

Right between the eyes.

Unsurprisingly, Cho's shrill screams died forthwith, but another sound took its place. Hundreds of new screams, shouts, and cries emitted from the bystander students and teachers of the stands as a hysteria broke the shock of this tragedy, which managed to occur in all of less than eight seconds since the Snitch was spotted.

The horror-stuck eyes of the school turned to Dumbledore as he rushed out to the field through the sheet of mist and rainfall, his wand raised. But something about the mournful way he moved, the regretful air about him as he charmed the motionless Ms. Chang to a slow a stop before she struck the ground, the knowing feeling that raised the hairs on the back of the student body's necks. It all strongly suggested that now it would take a great deal most than just a charm to help Cho, if _anything_ could.

Rouge sat back in her seat and watched the settling havoc and mayhem with a forced look of fright. Really, she regretted sitting behind the Gryffindor triumvirate, and wished for nothing more than to see the priceless and genuine expression of heartbroken trauma she was sure Harry Potter wore on his face.

__

Sad But True

Note to Readers: There. Was it worth the wait? No, probably not. Oh well. I tried.

goes into commercial-mode _What can Severus be up to with the Exhaurio potion and why is it so seriously messing up Rouge? Why is Rouge medically disqualified for the Quidditch team? What happened between Rouge and Ron and what does Draco have to do with it? Why did I even bother trying to kill Cho? _(My apologies to all those 'Pro-Cho'. I had to!) _Will Rouge and her Slytherin helpers get caught for this heinous crime? THIS ENOUGH PLOT FOR YOU PEOPLE?! _OF COURSE NOT!!!_ THERE'S MORE PLOT THAN THIS!!! Stay tuned for the _other _answers! Same bat time! Same bat network!_

NOTE: If you actually have something to _really_ say about this chapter, I suggest you type it up in the review box now, BUT DON'T POST THE REVIEW YET. I don't want you to loose any current opinions of the chapter while it's still fresh in your mind, but, hopefully, you will have a few more things to say after these next few paragraphs… (go write your review now, but don't post it!)

…because it's what you've all been waiting for! (Well, some of you, anyway.)

THE SHIPPINGS POLL!!! cheers But before I get into that, fellow author, Neshomeh, brought up a very good point. I quote from her most recent review, '_WHY are character pairings such a big deal?_' I told her the answer, and now I shall tell you: They aren't. Character pairings ARE NOT a big deal and they don't make a scrap of difference in my excuse for a plot. I am just seeming to make a big deal about character pairings because I don't want to choose 'who's going with who' for the Yule Ball. That's why I'm making you all do it for me by kindly asking you to just add your character pairing opinion/vote to your review! Just remember: What the final decisions really don't really matter, whatsoever, it's just for the Yule Ball, and maybe some other completely non sequitur scenes, and I'm lazy and paranoid.

Reminder for people who are new to the fabulous world of fanfiction: 'shippings' are romantic parings between two (or sometimes more for love-triangles, squares, pentagons, etc) characters in a certain fanfiction story. No big deal, really.

RULES AND NOTES FOR THE POLL:

- NO slash pairing, PLEASE. No yaoi, yuri, or any other gay or lesbian pairings, PLEASE. I have nothing against slash pairings, I just do not wish to write it. Some readers may find such parings offensive, and besides, my parents, some of my teachers, and some of my grandparents are reading this fic. I'd still like a good and risqué-less reputation with them, thankyouverymuch.

- You may choose whichever character shippings you'd like, with the exception of the slash rule, and please limit the pairings of characters I have not otherwise acknowledged in this fanfiction unless you make a specific request and have a good reason for my putting the pairing in this fanfiction. Please, do not feel intimidated to request for any certain pairing, but if the pairing is very specific and… well… unique… and not exactly common to this site, I'd appreciate a request and/or reason in your opinion/vote.

- As I said before, character pairings will have no effect on the plot, whatsoever, but if you have an idea for some way a certain character pairing may effect the plot, please feel free to mention it to me. I'd very much appreciate it. And this goes for any ideas you may wish to bring to my attention. I love knowing what you guys think and I enjoy knowing your opinions and ideas.

- You don't have to include every single character. Just the characters YOU want to be paired. And if YOU specifically want a character(s) to be alone (and maybe even miserable) please say so. This is all about what you want. Let loose! Have some fun, here! You aren't limited to voting for just one pairing, vote for as many as you'd like!

- Alright, this rule is specifically about Rouge. Rouge/Harry or Rouge/Ron is NEVER going to happen. My apologies to those people who were interested in that happening, but I'm just not up for taking the risk. Though you are free to mention that you were interested in those pairings, I'd be very flattered, but I'm still firm in my decision that those pairings are never going to happen. And you don't have to include Rouge in your opinion/vote at all! Heck, you can decide that you'd like her to be alone and miserable! It's all about what you want.

- If the pairing you wanted and/or were voting for don't win the poll, or a pairing you DIDN'T want to win the poll _does_ win the poll, don't loose hope. If you keep bothering me about it I may find a way for your opinion to pull through. And if you give any suggestions on to how it may work in this fanfic, I'll be more likely to agree with it. Your opinions don't stop here! Feel completely free to give your suggestions and opinions any time!

So with that said and done, on to the voting! Just add your pairing opinion/vote onto your review and make me, and possibly many other readers, VERY HAPPY!!! So click that review button at the right bottom corner of this page (if you haven't already), type all up that you need/want to, and press the lovely submit button! If for some reason you want your opinion/vote to be confidential and not able to be viewed by the public through reviewing, please just send me your opinion/vote via e-mail! My e-mail address is available on my profile bio thing.

Thank you ever so much for participating! And even if you don't participate, I still love ya' anyway for reading!

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING!!!


	14. All is Fair in the Game of Love and War

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell. ...Or at least don't tell JK.

Note to readers: For the candles and incense that made me feel as if I had a reason to write just for fun again. ...And everything else. And, also, thank you to Kat, O Wonderful and Merciful Malfoy Goddess. (...psst! Everyone! She's "Mayflower" here on !) This chapter's title was conceived by LittleMaggie.

Chapter 14: All is Fair in the Game of Love and War and Whatnot

Something fell over the school during the next four days. The weather grew rapidly colder. The lake began to freeze; a thin coating of ice appeared at the lake's edge. Mist settled over the lake's placid waters, crystals dancing, as Saturday's rain turned into slowly falling snow, dusting the castle and grounds with glistening white; but the snow didn't stop. It carried on falling, steadily increasing until all of Hogwarts was covered in a thick layer of cold gray.

But no matter how deep the snow on Hogwarts gets, it always melts away. Always.

Something had fallen over the inhabitants of the magical school. Denial and grief spread like disease all because of the "accident" involving the late Ms. Chang, and Rouge calmly sat back and watched the chaos, the sickness spreading. The students and professors in denial thought of the most entertaining excuses for the incident, she believed.

Most of the students that Rouge had overhead blamed the Seeker's untimely end on the long hiatus of practice because of the Tri Wizard Tournament. Some of the bolder students even dared to whisper that Cho's Quidditch performance had been dwindling ever since "after Cedric." But that was all they would say: "after Cedric," as though hisdeath was some unspeakable event in need of a euphemism. The reason was plausible and quickly becoming putative throughout the school. The thought of conspiracy and murder seemed beyond them, and that was why Rouge simply got to sit back and contentedly watch the aftermath.

Yet Rouge would overhear a Professor whispering to another – or a Prefect recounting a Professor's words to his or her comrades of similar esteem – once or twice and these occurrences always gave Rouge a slight twinge. These words would always be of concern over the game's security, rules and the like, and even of the security of the school itself. But Rouge never dwelled long on these words, the Exhaurio potion wouldn't allow it, along with the help of Rouge's favourite repeated excuse for the tragedy, which was thus:

"It was raining. Bad Quidditch weather."

This always brought her a vague feeling of triumph, along with a similarly vague smirk. It's as though they were _trying _to make this easy. And for so long, Rouge had fought it... She could have laughed.

But there was one group in particular that Rouge found herself wanting to avoid, feeling rather ill, though she forced herself to trail about them when they met. The small yet distinctly noticeable group of students that had formed in front of the Infirmary during any free moments they had. The one group that Rouge was sure she'd get the most enjoyment out of seeing. Because it was the one group that Harry Potter had appeared in.

It was the morning of Wednesday, December 20, and during the few precious moments before the morning's classes, the small group once again accumulated at the doors of the Hospital Wing.

Specifically, they were a group of mourners, though at the time they weren't specifically aware that they were so. Their solemn, somber faces speaking their anxiety far more eloquently than words ever could, they waited silently at the doors.

Two Ravenclaw girls exited the Infirmary, breaking the silence with the creak of the opening door and with their grief. Quite literally, in the case of one of the girls. Said girl was freckled – with short brown hair and round brown eyes – and bawling. The girl stumbled, bleary-eyed with tears to her fellow Ravenclaws, who embraced her with silent consolation and sympathetic bereavement as she sobbed... quite loudly. But the girl, who had come out with the weeping girl, also a Ravenclaw, differed quite drastically with her comrade in the presentation of her grief.

She walked out calmly, as silent as the grave- well perhaps it shouldn't be phrased in that particular wording under these circumstances, for the sake of tact. She walked out calmly, quietly, resignedly, her head bowed and eyes to the floor.

It took Harry a moment to recognize her as the friend of Cho's who had given him words of comfort after Cho declined his request of her to be his dance partner for the Yule Ball... nearly two months ago. Had it really been that long? After another moment he realized she was also the Keeper and new Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team that he had seen play during that tragic match last Saturday. And as she looked up and met his gaze, there was no mistaking those jade green eyes.

She blinked at him once or twice before giving Harry a sad, pitying look that he had to grit his teeth to bear. She approached him with a quiet and reserved opening line of, "'Morning, Harry."

Harry guessed that she had specifically refrained from using the greeting "Good morning" out of the ineptness of the adjective "good" for this particular morning. He agreed. He could see nothing good about it.

"Morning... er... Lisa... Ackersomething, isn't it?" Harry greeted her feebly.

"Ackerley," she corrected offhandedly, "but just call me 'Jade'."

There was a pause as they stood side-by-side, seemingly unable to look at each other with the intuition that bore upon them both, but even heavier upon Jade, as it wasn't intuition for her. It was knowledge.

"Err... you played well on Saturday, ...Jade," Harry offered and Jade scoffed bitterly.

"We didn't win," she said, a hint of wry sadness in her voice, as though she thought it was ironic, throwing a glance at Harry. He didn't understand the gesture. She continued, "But neither did Slytherin, technically. Madam Hooch told the team that since Cho... I mean..." she faltered for a moment before continuing, "since the game wasn't finished, they're... nullifying the results of the game. I think that's how Madam Hooch said it."

Jade drew a long shuddering breath and took on a rather mechanical tone as she added, "So no one won. The professors are giving both Ravenclaw and Slytherin fifty points each or something like that so neither house is put at an unfair disadvantage... But the professors... they want to keep all this quiet since... since..." She broke off, staring straight ahead of her, which happened to be where her crying comrade stood with the other Ravenclaws.

"Oh, Harry..." she whispered so that only he could hear, yet she didn't, or just _couldn't _look at him, "she's dead."

After that, Harry didn't seem able to look at Jade either. Cho's dead. The silence hung between them, painfully heavy. Cho's dead. The words seemed nonsensical in Harry's mind. He couldn't seem to comprehend them. He just couldn't imagine... he never could have thought...

Jade had to draw breath again. "Dumbledore's going to make an announcement about it at dinner," she told him quietly, "for the sake of telling us the truth, y'know? But I don't know how much he'll say. They don't want everyone panicking over this... And you know how tense people are nowadays, ever since last year when-"

Jade broke off again and they were left with only the other girl's sobs to break the silence. Harry knew that Jade was thinking about the Third Task, but seemed unable to speak of Cedric's death like so many other students, Cedric's _murder_, as though if she even mentioned it, she'd be insinuating that Cho was murdered, too. Harry veered the conversation elsewhere to spare them both of thinking of such a thing.

"Cho's in there, isn't she?" he asked, jerking his head towards the door of the Infirmary. Jade nodded, and Harry continued, "Why did you and that other girl get to go in?"

"Hannah and I were Cho's best friends," Jade explained, gesturing to the crying girl who Harry guessed was Hannah. "They... the professors... they thought it'd be the right thing to do, to let us see her... one last time. Like... like, don't you think they'd let those two kids you always hang out with – the youngest Weasley boy and that Granger girl... don't you think they'd get to see you if... if you died?"

Harry, who by this point was feeling numb with all this talk of death and the confirmation of Cho's death, was unnerved by this notion of his death, even in a theoretical sense. Maybe even scared.

They bid each other hurried and awkward good-byes and Harry departed alone, leaving the mourners to their tears. But Rouge had quietly slipped away from the scene slightly earlier without anyone's notice. She had heard enough.

"I can't believe it," Ron repeated for at least the twelfth time that day. Hermione was sure of it as she and the other two members of the Gryffindor triumvirate, Harry and Ron, descended the stairs from first floor corridor at some distance behind, other Gryffindors and another scattered non-Gryffindor-house-member or two all marching down for lunch up ahead.

"I know, Ron," Hermione assured him, trying to sound sympathetic and then rather failing as she added, her natural, know-it-all tone returning to her voice, "but I understand their reasons for doing it. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore-"

"Their reasons for doing it?! Hermione, there are no _reasons_ for going and canceling the year's Quidditch season just because of some accident! Quidditch is all about accidents, they happen all the time! They can't _do _this! It just isn't _fair_-!"

McGonagall had just told them the news in that morning's Transfiguration class that the remainder of this year's Quidditch season would be canceled this year. She didn't mention any of the reasons behind this decision or even that Cho had died, Harry had noted. But remembering what Jade had said that morning, he supposed the professors weren't going to say anything – if they were going to say anything at all – until Dumbledore had made his announcement. Harry figured that Dumbledore felt it was his burden to tell the school first.

The blow of the news seemed to hit Ron the worst – the news of Quidditch's cancellation, that is. Or at least his outcry of protest was the loudest. Harry and Hermione let him rant without complaint, as though he were the only one suffering, as though he were the only one to have something taken away.

"It's just not fair, it's not _right_! I only just got on the team! I haven't even been able to play a single game yet and they go and cancel the season-!"

"-and spare the rest of us of having to witness your lamentable Quidditch skill, right, Weasley?"

The Gryffindor triumvirate had reached the Entrance Hall, and upon reaching the top landing of the marble staircase, that mocking drawl reached their ears. As one, they turned their heads to the sound of the jeer. There, at the foot of the stairs, calmly leaning against the post at the end of the banister was Draco Malfoy, smirking self-righteously up at them.

The smirking Slytherin was alone. There was no Crabbe or Goyle bodyguards, no posse of fellow Slytherins – no one. The other groups of students filed into the Great Hall, quickly emptying the Entrance Hall. The muffled lunchtime chatter could be heard from the Great Hall, and, in his anger, Ron wondered as he reached for his wand if the lunch-goers would be able to hear Malfoy's screams.

Ron expected to feel Harry and Hermione's hands grab his robes to hold him back, but the restraint didn't come. He glowered at Malfoy and swore insults at him, but instead of hearing Hermione's disapproving chastisement, he turned his head to see Harry join him at his side, wand out and looking, if at all possible, angrier with Malfoy than Ron.

When Ron turned his malevolent glaze back down to Malfoy, he found that it was no longer returned. Malfoy was looking somewhere off to the side of where the triumvirate stood. He was still smirking. Ron followed his gaze... to Rouge, who had appeared in the side doorway through which they had came themselves and Ron's expression turned into a scowl.

"C'mon," he muttered, nudging Harry's shoulder and, in a skulking stomp, led the rest of the triumvirate past Malfoy, who surprisingly made no further trouble besides a snicker and a sneer. At some distance behind Rouge attempted to follow the Gryffindor triumvirate's beeline into the Great Hall, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Draco caught her arm. His smirk was gone.

In an empty classroom, located off the Entrance Hall, opposite the doors to the Great Hall, from which Rouge could still hear the muffled lunchtime clamour, she tried to make some sense of her Slytherin counterpart and once accomplice. The silent urgency in which he'd dragged her across the Entrance Hall and into the classroom they currently occupied she couldn't comprehend reason for. And there he stood, his back to her as he peered out a sliver of an opening in the door with a shifty-eyed gaze before closing it with a ginger touch so as to quiet the '_click_', and the only word that came to Rouge's mind was "paranoid."

And he had once taunted _her_ for her precautions. She scoffed, and Draco turned at the noise.

"Do you want us caught or not?" he snapped.

"I didn't realize there was reason for caution," she murmured mildly, as though she held the thought in credence, as though a Ravenclaw seeker hadn't been murdered a mere four days ago. She made a thoughtful noise, a click of her tongue against her teeth, giving him a lofty gaze. "You're not _scared_, are you, Draco?" For _she_ had no reason to be, and because of that she only just managed to keep a straight face.

"Caution and fear are two completely different things last time I checked, Magie," Draco retorted smoothly, his poker face on. "Any particular reason you're asking? Do you need reassurance? I can give you reassurance if you'd like it." The tone of his voice suggested that he did by no means intend for any such thing to happen. It was more mocking than anything else, trying to rile her up. If a challenge was what she wanted, a challenge was what she'd get.

"No, it's just that caution was never something I ever particularly associated with you. As for fear... well..." she drawled, choosing her next words, "I'd _hope_ not. I'd expect better from you."

She knew these retorts were uncalled for. Draco had always shown appropriate caution while preparing for the match, as had she. Meeting her surreptitiously out on the pitch in the middle of the night, with or without Crabbe and Goyle, he'd always practiced appropriate caution and stealth. They both had. They always carefully planned everything down to details such as where Rouge would be sitting in the stands, carefully practiced every Quidditch tactic that would be used, and, which Rouge was certain must have been difficult for the social butterfly, he swore to secrecy to ensure their safety. They both did, though the only real threat of that rested in Draco. But he had been a good accomplice; they'd carried out the plan successfully. But that didn't mean he wasn't a great prat who drove her bloody mad.

But the match was over and the deed was done. What need for caution was there now?

"I'm not _scared_, Magie. You can put your little mind at ease about that, at least," he told her, his face showing lines of distinct irritation. He paused, and added, "And it's not as if you've _done_ anything. Anybody'd think you were suffering some great disease the way you're carrying on. Guilt, perhaps?"

"_I beg your pardon?_ I haven't been 'carrying on'. I have no _guilt_," she spat at him as though the word 'guilt' had left a bad taste in her mouth. She had no guilt. Her extra dose of the Exhaurio potion that morning ensured that. "And how can you say that I haven't done anything? It was _my plan_. _I_ thought it up. _I_ asked His Lordship for permission to put it in action. _I_ asked you to be a part of this. _I_ set the wheels in motion." She lowered her voice to a caustic hiss, only just reaching Draco's ears. "If it weren't for me, Ms Chang would still be alive, and Potter would still be happily dreaming about her."

He snorted. "You did nothing but _dream_ about it, so caught up in that pretty little head of yours, too _scared_ to do it," Draco sneered. "So, _naturally_, I went and did _all the work_, so you wouldn't be uprooted as some common, incompetent _thing_. Therefore, _I_ should be the one that gets the credit." His voice lowered, just as hers had – maybe even softer. "And I swear to you now, Rouge, that I will get it."

For a moment, Rouge found herself helpless, only able to stare at Draco through narrowed eyes. And when her voice returned, the first sound that emitted from her was a laugh – short and acidic.

"Is that all you dragged me in here for?" she asked, gesturing about the empty classroom, her voice still so bitten with that caustic laughter. "To... to swear to me that you'll get your _glory?_ That's all?" She laughed again, so taunting and so jeering in that single sound. "Trust me, Draco, I _know_ you'll get your due credit. You needn't drag me into an empty room and say as much in a hushed voice. What do you mean by that, anyway? Trying to... establish your _dominance_ or something?" Taking a step away from him, she threw back her head for a final laugh. Shaking her head as she stared at the ceiling, she murmured, "...You've forgotten your place..."

For a few moments, Draco looked as though he would attack her from all angles, flushing in obvious frustration. And then... then everything disappeared. He stared, rather than glared. He drew his lower lip in and bit it, smirking faintly.

"My place...?" he snickered, each little vocal rack as eloquent and sly as his speech. "My place is, at this very moment, here in an abandoned classroom, trying to dominate you. Unless you'd like to dominate me, instead...?" There was a very distinct duality to that phrase that was perhaps a little off-putting due to the innocence he exuded.

And Rouge found herself very off-put, standing there and feeling a wave of vulnerability wash over her – a feeling of sudden nakedness. Subconsciously taking another step away from him, she stared at him, eyes narrowed curiously as though she hadn't heard him quite right. Exhaling a scoff of disbelief, she shook her head vaguely, and sat down at an empty chair she'd subconsciously groped at for support at an empty desk in the empty room, all too alone with Draco.

"You disgust me," she murmured, still so faintly shaking her head at him.

"No I don't," he said quite certainly. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, you do, and don't go assuming that you know otherwise, you wretched megalomaniac," she told him sharply and moved her eyes to an opposite corner of the room so she didn't have to look at him and that smirk of his. "Now, is there anything else you want with me, or can I go to lunch now?" She'd have left already if Hogwarts food sounded any more appetizing than this.

"I don't particularly feel like letting you off _just_ yet, thankyou," he said, as though he not only had a right to that power, but owned it. Robes swirling around his feet, he swept over to the desk Rouge sat at, planted both hands on the desk, and leant in, looking her squarely in the eye. It was not a happy stare, especially at this proximity, not in the least. It was, in fact, so _not_ happy, it was bordering on something of expended fear. "You are, _after all_, the reason why there are bloody great monsters flapping all over the place." His voice, however lowered, did not convey anger, or irritation; it was... empty. Pointed, but not accusing.

For a moment, Rouge didn't understand what he was referring to; she barely registered it as words with any meaning at all, and she merely returned his stare with every so slightly pair of widened eyes; she was transfixed by his gaze.

'..._bloody great monsters flapping all over the place_...'

And sounding practically skeptical in her uncertainty, she ventured, "...the thestrals?"

She knew she shouldn't be surprised. Word of the skeletal, winged horses that seemed to have appeared overnight was all over the school. "Thestrals" – that word was being passed around as well, whispered in reverent fear of the supposed death omen that the beasts were. A vast majority of the school had never seen those milky white eyes or leathery wings before, but after Saturday, everyone who had been at the match now saw the thestrals. Rouge had been able to see the beasts all year and had never entertained the thought that Draco hadn't. And now with such suggestions of this notion being true, Rouge was surprised. Had Draco never seen death before...?

His head cocked so slightly, it was barely noticeable. Mouth barely parted, upper-lip curled slightly... it was as if he couldn't believe she could be so slow.

"Oh, is that what they are?" he said, cradling his most silky voice, eyebrows raised. "I didn't know, did you notice?"

"I've been seeing them, the 'bloody great monsters', all year. They are not a new feast to my eyes," she retorted fluidly, as steady as her unblinking gaze. "Haven't _you_ been able to see them before?" It was an obvious challenge, as though seeing death were some proof of valour.

"Is my being too close to you causing some brain malfunction or what? Maybe I am being too lenient with you."

The beginnings of a scowl edged their way to the surface of his face. There was a pause, in which he considered biting her head off, but it was more of a fight to force himself to look away. Eventually, his head lowered, and he stared at the desk. All scathing emotion was forced out of his system, and it was then that he decided to try something different for a change – being serious.

"...No, I haven't," he said quietly, eyes lifting to look at her though he did not move his head. "Is there a problem?" This was his own challenge to her, daring her to say something that would ruin their relationship – and subsequently force him to win the power struggle.

But for some time, Rouge didn't rise to the challenge, saying nothing as she found it not as difficult to look away and did so. In fact, she found it quite easy to look away; it would have been much more of a fight to return his gaze. When she finally gave any sort of answer to his challenge, she shook her head, no. Keeping her eyes on some invisible point on the desk, she made a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat, keeping her thoughts to herself... to a point. She let out a chuckle, shaking her head again as though out of disbelief.

Shoulders caving in, he searched her face meticulously, anxiously for _any_ possibility of being mocked, taunted, teased, patronized, or his being subjected to some sort of stress in the near future. He was always concerned about what anybody thought of him, but for this moment only, it was obvious and – heavens forbid – pure. He murmured, "What...?"

It was that single murmured word that brought Rouge's eyes back to Draco's, the corners of her lips tugging into something that was almost but not quite a smirk. But it was that pitiable concern for his image all too evident in his face and gaze that made that feeble smirk quiver for a moment and disappear into the blank and emotionless void that was Rouge's face.

She wasn't quite sure what to say. It didn't seem right, some how, to point out the irony of it all; big bad Death Eater Draco Malfoy that she'd envied and hated for so long... had never seen death, when she had so many times, _so_ many times. It didn't seem right... but then again, was it right for any fifteen-year-old to be so well acquainted with death?

"No, Draco," she said, her voice close to a whisper in its quietness. "No problem at all." And she said this with their gazes met, and she said it in full honesty. Draco took a breath, and exhaled it in a sigh. It was awkward, but at the same time, he felt strangely... safe, that he'd finally spoken. This didn't mean he didn't refrain from remaining somewhat wary.

"...Good," he said, just as vaguely. He looked thoughtful, more pensive than devious. He knew what was going on. He just didn't know how to say it... "There's more of a difference between us than you realize, isn't there...? I hope 'my place' hasn't changed."

"Of course it hasn't, Draco," she assured him, submissive in her quietness and total lack of betrayed emotion. He'd dominated her after all.

"Good," he said again, and Rouge's eyes had already returned to the desk, simply unable to keep her gaze on him. And a veil of silence fell over the two, laced and embroidered with an understanding that was unspeakable to them both. The mutuality of their relationship was too dangerous to be spoken, for he knew her weakness, and she knew his. This understanding was so precarious, like balanced weights; uncertain of whom would make the first move to tip the scale.

"So what now?" Draco asked, breaking the uncomfortably, even painfully poignant silence.

"I..." Rouge hesitated, as though considering lying, but then again she still had a feeling a power in this mutuality. She didn't have to be afraid of Draco's reaction. So she barreled on, "I was thinking about asking His Lordship to permit me to embark upon the..." She hesitated once again, looking thoughtful as she chose her word, "...the sortie. The errand. The undertaking, if you will." She gave a snort of wry amusement, though Draco didn't exactly see eye-to-eye with her.

"Well, what to you call what we just did on Saturday?" Draco interjected, though she could tell that, behind the frustration in his eyes, he didn't quite understand what she was going on about, and that in itself worried him.

"That was deputation, Draco. _My _idea, though He authorized it. This is a plan of His devising."

"_What_ plan-?"

"You know what plan."

A flame of recognition flared somewhere in the back of his mind and his eyes widened ever so slightly. _...The plan His Lordship had planned over the summer..._

"_Rouge_," he stressed his words, "His Lordship meant that assignment for_ me_. It was meant for _me_." He tried to sound patient as if she'd merely forgotten – condescending in his garishly painted-on façade of maturity – though anger churned just beneath the surface.

"I dare say I believe otherwise," she argued, her calm much more genuine.

His upper lip formed a sneer, and he spat, "You wouldn't dare take it."

"But would _you_?" It took him a moment to decipher this question and when he did he hated her all the more for her mild, soft-spoken manner and her bold – _cheeky_, even – presumption. She could tell that it burned him even more than she was right. "Really, Draco, would you kill me for it?"

For a single second, as Draco glowered and scowled at her, it seemed as though he would say, "yes." But as the word formed on his tongue, he caught himself, as if the thought of actually having to kill her entered his mind. He looked away, as if in all his pride in himself and in all his hate for her, he could no longer endure the sight of her. It was then that Rouge made her exit, simply and quietly opening the door and closing it again behind her. She was not absconding; she had the last word and there was no other reason to stay. After all, she decided, she much preferred seeing the hate of a threat in his eyes when he looked at her than being unable to look at him because of the uncharacteristic purity of a confidant... of a friend. It just felt safer.

Niccolò Machiavelli said it himself; "it is much safer to be feared than loved."

"...Ooh! A clump of soot on the candle wick!" Lavender exclaimed to Parvati, giddy with excitement. "That means you'll meet a stranger who becomes a lover...!"

__

It means _that the dorm will smell like smoke and cheap candles again_, Rouge thought, and turned over in her four-poster-bed. She had all the curtains tightly drawn so that she lay silently in the dark, but the dormitory was far from silent. Lavender and Parvati sat on one of their beds, practicing their little love spells, oblivious to Rouge's presence in the dorm.

They called what they were doing "divination". Rouge called it utter nonsense. It was the sort of thing that mothers taught their daughters as something "fun" to do during slumber parties. It wasn't real magic, but Lavender and Parvati practiced these little rites like religion. They'd gone through apple spells (the dorm smelled like fruit for weeks, with seeds occasionally found on beds), cutting open the rosy fruit and asking the little seeds to point them in the direction of their true love. And they'd gone through scrying spells that presumably one could see one's future love with. Rouge had walked in on one of those rites a few weeks back, Parvati telling Lavender as they leaned over a bowl of water, "My mum once taught me and Padma how to see visions in a bowl of molasses."

"_Molasses? _Ewww... sticky..."

Rouge simply stared. When they noticed her presence, they hesitantly though politely offered for Rouge to join them, an offer obviously meant to be declined, or at least Rouge thought so. And Rouge declined it, grabbed her cloak, and left for a night-out. But for three nights now, the two girls had tried out candle spells, and Rouge was certain they'd end up burning the castle down.

Briefly, Rouge wondered if she envied them. A ridiculous notion, to be sure, which was why she only entertained the thought for a few moments. But _did_ she envy these two girls, able to simply have fun with their little fantasies, dreaming of true love and marriage (through the guidance of their overwhelming hormones, Rouge thought – forever the cynic), and barely ever a thought about death entering their pretty little heads...?

...No. Of course she didn't.

She closed her eyes and listened to them for a while until Lavender asked her friend, "Hey, do you think Professor Sprout could give us any bay leaves? I'm certain that I know some bay leaf spells."

"Yeah," Parvati agreed, "maybe we can get that Rouge girl to pop down to the greenhouses and get us some. She spends a lot of time working with Professor Sprout, you know."

"That poor soul. _Hermione _must be influencing her. There isn't a hope for true love for her now, acting that way. C'mon, let's go down to the greenhouses ourselves, I don't want to ask Rouge."

Rouge listened to them extinguish their candles and exit the dorm, the faint smell of the smoky residue of phlogiston already abrading her nose. The dorm was finally silent, and she exhaled.

It was some time after dinner, and the gloaming light that drifted through the dormitory failed to penetrate the barrier of curtains on Rouge's four-poster. She felt tired, but it was tiredness beyond the capabilities of sleep to relieve. A weariness that seeped into every pore of her skin, weakened every muscle of her body, and overtook every fiber of her being. Through glazed eyes, she stared into the darkness, too tired to move, as though she had no body at all. She was just a pair of eyes in the darkness, contained in this little box of curtains.

She tried not to think; she was too _tired _to think. She just wanted to lie there in the quiet, in her languor... but her mind refused to rest. Words paraded through her brain, full thoughts starting to form before she even realized their existence. Her thoughts were sneaking up on her in her fatigue, and she couldn't fend them off. A newly formed thought broke off of the sluggish weight of her brain and drifted up to the surface of her consciousness like an air bubble in oil.

"You're hungry," it said.

Too tired to argue with that distant part of her brain, she ignored it, turning over in bed again as though she could turn away from that part of herself. She hadn't eaten anything at dinner, merely pushed food around her plate as Dumbledore rose, called for silence, and spoke. The gravity of his sober words bore down upon the inhabitants of the Great Hall and she had tried to shut out the sound, but only to some success. A few phrases leaked through, "_...and though one of our own is gone from us forever, we will carry on as normal..._" She'd resisted the urge to look down the table, look for a mop of black hair and green eyes behind glasses. She scratched the tips of her fork against her thumb, the sensation nicely distracting.

"He wants to tell everyone the truth," another part of her brain said, and she agreed. And yet she knew there was hardly a word of truth to any of it. "Doesn't want to leave everyone in the dark."

In the dark of her little box of curtains, she breathed quietly. We're all in the dark.

Another thought swelled and broke off from her brain, drifting just like the one before it and popped at the surface, "You're _not _some common, incompetent _thing_."

She tried not to think about Draco and the encounter with him that she'd had that day. She didn't want to think about it, and yet the memory of it kept returning. Uncontrollably, a part of her kept resurfacing the memory and demanding her attention, though she was unwilling to give her attention to anything but the silence.

Draco was wrong. They were more alike than either of them wished to admit. The thought of that overwhelming mutuality still hung over her, how they were mutual in their ambition, in the qualities expected of them, in their fear, and moreover, in how each viewed the other as a threat because of this mutuality. And his talk of _dominance_... oh, how she _hated him_.

She couldn't sleep. She couldn't rest.

__

Have mercy on me, she pled, yet she would not be granted such luxury.

The quietness over Gryffindor Tower soothing his ears, his own stillness cradling him in an armchair before the fireplace, its fire within smouldering, Harry Potter found himself once again alone in the common room. He'd watched the evening pass him by, people coming and going, all eventually retreating to their respective dorms, even Lavender and Parvati, a bundle of a plant of some sort in their arms. Harry wasn't interested enough to ask. The grandfather clock by the portrait hole knelled the late hour, but the sound seemed muffled as though out of respect for the quiet... respect for the dead.

__

...and though one of our own is gone from us forever, we will carry on as normal...

Harry shivered, picked up the iron poker and prodded the log nestled in the embers.

__

...one of our own is gone from us forever...

It... it was still so cold in here, so Harry gave the log another jab with the poker, though a bit more violently this time.

__

...gone...forever...

And all the grief Harry had kept contained and suppressed the whole day, grief he'd kept so quiet he'd practically denied its existence during Dumbledore's speech... now that grief welled up inside him, spilling over in tears and sobs that racked his entire being. He dropped the poker with a clang and brought his hands to his face to muffle his sounds of anguish and he cried. Cried and cried and the rest of the Tower was silent in respect for him for what seemed an eternity, save a single voice that came from the base of the stairs some minutes later with the intent of bearing comfort.

"What's the matter, Harry?"

With a sharp inhaled breath akin to a gasp, Harry whipped his head around to face the source of the voice. Of all people... it was Rouge.

He turned, his gaze returning to the fire, and he furiously blinked away his tears. "Why would you think anything's the matter?" he muttered.

"You're crying."

"Am not."

"Are to. I heard you all the way from the dorms."

Harry hesitated, bristling and shifting uncomfortably in his armchair, and he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. "Was your ear pressed up against the door or something?"

"No, it just that sounds always seem to be magnified by millions when you can't sleep," she said simply as she approached, taking a seat on the hearth. "I was considering telling a spider on the window sill to bugger off because it was making so much noise."

Harry chuckled a little, reluctantly. "Ron would go stark, raving _mad_ if he saw a spider on the window. He hates spiders, you know."

"I know."

An awkward silence hovered over the two after that, clearly from the mentioning of Ron – a subject still rather tender – and they both stared fixedly at the fire. It gave a small splutter as the embers started to dim. As though giving a last protest before dying, Rouge thought.

"...Really, Harry, what's wrong? You can tell me," she prompted, trying to sound concerned. She knew what was wrong, but she had to hear it herself straight from him. She'd been lying to herself all day... the plan wasn't carried out successfully until she knew the extent of Harry's pain.

Harry made no immediate reply and continued to stare into the fire as though he didn't hear her, ignoring her silhouetted figure, but he slowly gave in to the prospect of sympathy. He almost felt as though he wanted to tell her, or at least to talk about it to _someone_. He didn't care what she thought anyway, so what did it matter?

"I found out today," he began, and paused to take a shuddering breath. "...I found out today that someone... someone I was rather fond of has died."

He stopped there, breathing out. The words seemed so small, so formal and detached. He felt a little better, as though he needed to get that out, and some of the pain of Cho's death had gone with it. As though letting it out in the open allowed him to stand back, look it over, and come to terms with the situation. So he continued, "She was so young... her whole life ahead of her... and now it's just gone. _She's_ gone. It's... it's just not fair-"

Rouge had felt a sort of painful pressure swelling in her chest as Harry spoke, as though the pain he was letting go of was collecting in her. She couldn't hear anymore of it. She didn't _want_ to hear anymore. She hadn't predicted feeling this pain... she didn't know...

"Life isn't fair, Harry," she interrupted suddenly, and Harry could hear that the façade had returned in her voice. "It's just fairer than death." Silence.

"What's that from?" Harry asked after a moment's thought and Rouge was taken aback.

"What do you mean, 'What's that from?'"

"It's a quote, isn't it?"

"...Well... yes..."

"Then what's it from?"

Rouge hesitated, looking at Harry curiously, though he didn't see.

"The Princess Bride," she replied, "by William Goldman."

Harry nodded silently, and Rouge could barely see it in the dim light of the embers. She felt as though she wanted to say something to him. Apologize, maybe. Perhaps just bury the hatchet, but all the words she considered always got lost somewhere in her throat and, rather, she gaped at Harry in a bewildered sort of wonder.

"Why are you always reciting quotes like that?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.

Rouge found her voice. "What?"

"Why are you always reciting quotes like that?" he repeated. "You recited that one just now, you quoted Shakespeare and some other guy when I met you at the try-outs, and I heard you say something to yourself at the game on Saturday... something about the trouble of liking someone-"

"You heard that?" she asked, frowning curiously at him, and he nodded without breaking his stare on the fire. "...'I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.' It's a quote by Jane Austen."

"Yeah, so, as I was saying, why are you always reciting quotes? Can't you think up anything to say of your own?"

Rouge didn't reply straight away. She got up from the hearth with the intent of not granting him an answer and made the trek back to the stairs leading back up to the dormitories, but she didn't seem able to make it the whole way without saying _something_. He deserved the respect of her granting him an answer.

"I've tried that," she answered finally, "and it... it just didn't work." So she might as well live on someone else's words.

"Bonne nuit," she bid Harry good night as she walked up the stairs.

And she doubled her dose of the Exhaurio potion that night.


	15. Le Vigile de Noël

Disclaimer: All usual disclaimers apply: don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell.

Note to readers: Yes. This chapter is insanely long. I know and apologize. Please, bear with me.

The name "Queudver" is, in fact, the pseudonym of Peter Pettigrew (Wormtail) in the French versions of the Harry Potter books, which JK overlooks in the translations herself. She _was_ a French teacher once, after all. She picked the French names of the characters herself. But I did work out the etymology for myself. As is "Douce Nuit" a real French Christmas carol to the tune of "Silent Night".

Also, as for the chess game scene between Rouge and Ron in this chapter, the chess game they're playing is, in fact, the chess problem in _Through the Looking Glass_. I worked out all the chess notation myself and it was difficult and evil, but I wanted to do it. It for nothing else, for my love of "Alice", my parents' love of "Alice"; and also I wanted to do it as a tribute to my role as the White Rabbit in a theatre production of "Alice in Wonderland" this past year. C'mon, I had to fit some "Alice" into this _somewhere._

Chapter 15: Le Vigile de Noël

Among unidentifiable shapes, things that her consciousness disregarded either from skepticism or ignorance, a few shapes appeared; but whether from her subconscious or some great, divine, precognitive force, she didn't know or care.

...She saw... a bridge... a windmill... the pulsing webbed feet of a frog... the painted grin of a jester...

Shapes appearing and introducing themselves like polite strangers that she acknowledged with blasé indifference and promptly forgot. And in the swirling shapes, she saw an arch...

She choked on the dregs of her tea and tried to muffle her coughs as best she could. She couldn't bear the thought of catching Trelawney's attention.

It was Divination class once again. Bodies huddled together in the heat of the North Tower against the chill of the winter morning. This was the first of the last two days of classes before the Christmas Holidays and no one could stay focused on their work.

Lots of students played cards with the cartomancy materials, making bets with the Christmas candy that they kept in their pockets to keep up their festive spirits. Some of the braver students in the back of the classroom played Gobstones, pretending that the stones were for lithomancy whenever Professor Trelawney stalked by. Hard for them to explain the foul liquid that was spat out of the stones at the losers, though.

Rouge, though, was satisfied with a cup of tea. Pretending to practice tasseography, sipping slowly at the steaming cup, she found a true moment of peace in the small pleasure. She had her textbook open—a prop she glanced at occasionally, as though to help read her findings.

Professor Trelawney, expecting (or maybe even _predicting_) the restlessness of the class, had assigned an easy activity today. At every table was set a few sprigs of holly. First thought of by the class as festive decoration, Professor Trelawney explained that holly had properties that improved foresight. The students were expected to try different practices of divination and see if the presence of the holly sprig gave any more clarity or copiousness to their visions. It was as if Trelawney was _asking_ for the class to disregard their class-work.

At first, Rouge had tried to stay on task, she had. At her empty table, she twisted the holly between her fingers, dealing cards to herself, tossing stones, staring into bowls of water and balls of crystal. At one point, she was trying to light a candle to practice lampadomancy, but the wick refused to light. As Rouge struggled with it, Trelawney passed and remarked, "Oh, my dear... a candle refusing to light foretells rain." Rouge gave up.

She sipped her tea. For the most part, between glancing at the dregs of her tea and at her textbook, she kept her eyes closed. She rotated her cup with gentle motions of her wrist, proving to Trelawney that she hadn't fallen asleep (as some students had), but acted as though she were in a trance, eyes closed and silent. As though not to disturb Rouge's visions, Trelawney kept her distance, which was exactly what Rouge wanted.

As Trelawney conversed in whispers with Lavender and Parvati at a table across the room, Rouge poured herself another cup, more of her performed trance, another moment of peace, if her mind would allow it.

But kept thinking. Thought, over and over, about last night, when she'd drowned herself beyond coherence in numbness, trying so desperately to forget the despair of tear-stained green eyes. And the pain they'd caused her. Tried to forget Cho's screams and bloodied face. It was over now. The task was done, in the past, and beyond her.

Rouge remembered her mother telling her so many times, "_Quand tu fais, fais sans remords._" 'When you do something, do it without remorse.' Her mother had always taught her to never second-guess herself, because the pain of regret is maddening. She had no remorse. She mustn't. Even though it was pain that made her still feel human.

And yet she couldn't find it in herself to repeat what she had done. What the match had caused her... But all she thought of was that it had been _her _plan, her own. She didn't even think that it was the act itself that caused her this pain, but instead that it was her plan. She hadn't planned on... She hadn't accounted for... _it was her fault._ Had to be.

What she found was that she'd lost faith in herself.

Absently swirling her tea, just another ghost-like student in the red-tinted room, eyes hidden by the shadows of her brow and the shadow made by the crest of her cheek tapering down the side of her face, light flickering in washes of red, she pried open her eyes. She stared at the crystal ball on the table before her without seeing it. A slash appeared from within the ball of gray wisps of smoke, as though something was trying to cut open the ball from the inside. The smoke that escaped turned to blood and bled onto the floral tablecloth. From within the ball, a hand reached up and slapped against the interior of the orb, as though reaching desperately for support, a handhold, something, _anything_. Then another hand, and another, three different hands. And the slowly pulsing palms slid down the glass and into the smoke, distorted by the spherical curve of the ball, and disappeared.

Rouge reached out to touch the bleeding slash on the crystal ball, but as her hand hid it from view, it too disappeared, and the blood evaporated into the washes of red-tinted light. Nothing was there, so she forgot about it, out of sight, out of mind, another stranger lost in the crowd, gone as quickly as it came with an introduction but no good-bye.

Rouge had barely gotten out of her last class that Thursday afternoon when the sun plummeted—a death dive—into the horizon. It was winter, after all; short days, long nights.

The night was reaching its apex—it was nearing midnight—and Rouge was outside, starkly contrasted against the snow in her black cloak. The courtyard was dark, she was safe here, and from where she stood she could see well out into the grounds. It was a vast plane of white beneath the moonlight until the forest, branches weighted down low with snow. But the long stretch of snow-covered land, where even the cover of night couldn't hide her... How was she to get across?

Careful to step only in the footprints left before her lest she leave her own trail, she began the long trek over the blinding white into a darkness greater from whence she came.

It felt like a masquerade ball, black cloaks rustling over snow and faces hidden behind white masks. They were to discuss plans for the upcoming year, and Rouge couldn't miss this. His Lordship was off to one side, speaking quietly with Lucius, and everyone present knew better than to disturb them. So everyone else was left to... mingle. Small circles of a few members formed, murmuring to one another, like cliques of friends, as though this were nothing more than a teenage party. With Draco absent (though she was albeit thankful for his absence now; he wouldn't be here to protest), and thinking better of approaching Severus, Rouge was left alone.

The vulnerability of it made her uneasy, so she went in search of Wormtail to have _someone_ to stand by. She found him by a tree at the edge of the clearing, flexing the fingers of his silver hand, and he looked up as she approached. Even from beneath his hood and behind his mask, Rouge could see him smile.

They made no contact of greeting, no embrace, no clasping of hands, and nor did they make any sort of verbal greeting. There was no need for it. After a few moments of standing in the security of each other's presence, safety in numbers, their breathing in of the crisp air the only sound, Wormtail spoke, though not without much awkwardness, "...Hey... when's your next trip to Hogsmeade?"

Rouge looked up at the unexpected questions and she had to think about it for a moment before answering, "...This coming Saturday, actually."

"Would you meet me at the Hog's Head at about noon?" he asked, and smiled meekly at her. "I want to give you a Christmas present."

Rouge returned the smile. "Yeah, okay."

But at their feet, there was the sound of the ever so faint disruption of snow, not the '_crunch_' of footfall, but of individual snowflakes having to make way for a slithering body. Rouge looked down to see Nagini coming to rest at her and Wormtail's feet after making the rounds about the others as though checking to see that all was in order like some overbearing school matron. The snake hissed at Rouge, circled about her ankles—attracted by the warmth in the snow—and snapped her jaws dangerously close to the fabric of her uniform's black stockings.

It was then that Rouge fully took in her hate for the wretched reptile; it always hissing its insults and threats at her, snapping at her ankles. And her father loving Nagini so much while he hardly felt anything more than contempt for his own daughter...

Rouge wrenched her ankle away from Nagini and kicked the snake brutally into the snow, Nagini flailing her rope-like body and hissing angrily, screaming and swearing insults that only, in that earshot, Rouge could hear.

Some masked faces turned to the source of the sound as Nagini, spitting in her wrath, slithered away to her master. Rouge watched her go, wondering if her father had seen her kick his precious pet. He hadn't. And she wondered if she should be grateful for not being caught and therefore punished, or if she _wanted_ him to see her hate for his pet—

"That wasn't a terribly nice thing to do, was it, Rouge?" said a voice close to her ear and she felt fingers curl around her upper-arm.

Rouge twisted out of the grasp and whirled around to face her faceless tormentor. It was Avery. The man she'd seen His Lordship mercilessly punish more than once, but him being even a little higher on the food-chain (forget hierarchy) than her, he took whatever status he had above her and flaunted it, using it as reason for him to humiliate her. If His Lordship was going to punish him, he wanted to punish someone else.

"Don't touch me, Avery," she said simply, none too warmly, though not particularly threateningly. She didn't want to start anything, not with another Death Eater, especially someone older and higher-ranking than she, which was probably what egged him on.

He was smirking carnally, but there was something more sinister than sexual in the air about him as he circled her, reaching out to grip her waist. "No, little girl," he taunted, something so degrading in the way he called her 'little girl,' "you ought to be punished for bad things you do."

Rouge pushed him away. "Don't touch me, Avery," she said again, her voice wavering slightly. She could see people watching, watching him do this to her and they did nothing to help her. She even saw Wormtail shrink back and out of sight. Severus, where was Severus? He had to help her, someone had to help her. Avery was circling her again, touching her again and again, and she was dizzy with fright, but she couldn't let him know that, let all of them know that.

"Gonna put up a fight, little girl? You're not gonna win, y'know. All the time before, you never have, you never will—"

"Don't _touch me_!" she screamed—her wand suddenly in her hand—followed by the first thing that came to mind, because, _oh_, she _wanted_ to hurt him, "_Crucio_!"

Avery was screaming, now. And suddenly, Rouge was not the one circled in her humiliation. She was part of the circle, watching someone else.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Release him, Rouge." Strangely, the voice held no anger, and she was surprised to recognize it as her father's. She lowered her wand, and, dryly, he went on, "Very good, very good. A Happy Christmas to you all. Now, if we can, we have some business to attend to."

The moon was just a sliver above her head, the very faintest of the Cheshire Cat's grins. Tomorrow night would be a new moon, she could tell. Through the crosshatch of branches, she could see the outline of the shadowed arc of the moon. A new moon with a visible outline, that foretold rain.

Rouge closed her eyes, white mask clutched to her chest. She was leaning against the trunk of a tree, alone on this path out of the woods, pausing for a moment or two before she returned to the castle. She hadn't brought her flask of Exhaurio potion outside with her, thinking that it might freeze in these low temperatures, but she wanted a swig of it right then. Oh, how badly she wanted it.

She tried not to think of what she'd gotten herself into, what she _chose_ to undertake. Undertake. She exhaled what would be sigh. She fought Draco for this, practically stole it from him, this piece of parchment now in her cloak pocket, handed to her personally by her father, these three names...

This was going to change everything. She meant it to.

She heard the '_crunch_' of footfall on snow and she gave and involuntary twitch of fear and grabbed her wand on reflex, eyes snapping open. It was Severus. She relaxed, but only slightly.

"Are you going to put me under the Cruciatus too, Rouge?" he asked, eyeing her wand dubiously and she put it away. She said nothing, so he asked, as if they were two blue-collar workers or London teenagers, "All right?"

"Is that a greeting or an inquiry as to my welfare?"

"I'll grant you the leisure of choosing."

"I'm all right."

She turned up her head to look at the moon again. He kept his distance, she noticed. Prevented any feeling of intimacy.

"You surprised everyone with your little outburst," Severus remarked conversationally. "Avery, most of all." Rouge closed her eyes.

"I didn't want him to touch me anymore."

There was a moment of silence and Rouge heard Severus take a step towards her, a new depth of feeling added to his voice as he began, "Rouge—"

"Don't," she interrupted. So he didn't.

After another moment of silence, Severus asked what Rouge and hoped and hoped that he wouldn't. There was a change to his demeanor, now. Awkwardness so heavily imbued with condescension and patience that it screamed at her. "Are you sure you've fully thought out the assignments you decided to take tonight?"

"Why are you talking to me as if I'm a child?"

"_Rouge—_"

"Yes, I have." She kicked at the snow at her feet, scuffing her shoes.

"Who's the first one?"

"You'll find out."

"When are you going to do it?"

"Christmas."

"Do you have an alibi?"

Rouge looked up, biting her bottom lip before admitting, "...no."

"I'll walk you up to the castle." He stepped up to her and took her arm; she gave no resistance. "I'll give you an alibi."

"...thank you."

Harry wondered how Professor Flitwick, as Head of Ravenclaw House, was coping with Cho's death. Surely he knew; everyone knew after all the rumors and then Dumbledore's speech earlier that week. Had the professor known Cho that well? Had he been one of the sources of comfort Cho had gone to in her grief over Cedric?

And Professor Sprout, at that. Did this tragedy bring the two professors together, both having lost a student of their houses so recently?

Harry considered the elfish professor in his Charms class late that Friday morning. Professor Flitwick had seemed quieter that morning, staring distractedly out the window while the students were busy working. Knowing that, on the last day of term, students would be quite simply unable to have enough focus to learn anything, Professor Flitwick had them on a "fun" assignment. In an attempt to be festive, they were trying to make enchanted snow. Hermione was thrilled, producing kinds of snow only an Eskimo could identify, while most of the other students merely delighted in blasting jets of snow at each other. Flitwick let the children play.

Harry noticed that the professor was talking now—with Rouge, actually. He overheard some of what they were saying ("Yes, I've heard so much about your mother's work, Ms. Magie. In fact, a few weeks ago, my sixth-year class worked on some of the genetic alteration charms your mother advanced. Of course, we only focused on detailed color changes—") but didn't listen long. Hermione would be more interested in that stuff than he would, and she was busy playing Mother Nature.

Harry turned his thoughts to Rouge. It wasn't often that he thought about her, even though she was a housemate even of his year, but he _did_ think about her. Thought about their odd meeting the night Dumbledore had given his speech. They hadn't spoken since, hadn't even made eye contact. Things were back to normal.

The only thing different, Harry noticed, was the spectacle made of her in Potions class today—the very first class of the day. As far as he knew, it was the first time this year that Rouge and Professor Snape had made eye contact, and they certainly did more than that.

The class was working on a medicinal draught whose main ingredient was cod liver oil. The simmering brews were sickly yellow, but, for the most part, odorless. Some students remarked that it looked like vegetable oil. More said that it looked like urine. And then, in the back of the dungeon, without warning—or perhaps it was the warning—there was a deep, resounding _'poof'_ like that of the flash powder from an antique camera. And from Rouge's cauldron, swirling smoke drifted not up but all around and with the smoke was a smell. A noxious smell, positively putrid, ripped at their nostrils.

A few students became violently ill, vomiting into their laps, onto the floor, or even into their cauldrons, and were rushed to the Hospital Wing, though not before Snape submitted Rouge to cruel censure and berating. And following this, Snape publicly gave her detention specifically to be served on the night of December 25th. The rest of the class was spent getting rid of the smell and the mess, and only Neville offered Rouge and comfort.

Harry still had the fragrant lip-gloss (that smelled of artificially sweet fruit) that Lavender and Parvati doled out to nearby Gryffindors on his upper lip, smeared on like the others did in attempt to fight off the smell of the ruined potion. Lavender and Parvati even gave some to Rouge, pitying her some for the punishment of detention on the night of the Yule Ball—inhumanly severe punishment in their eyes, and yet, Harry found himself ever so slightly jealous of Rouge. Why couldn't _he_ have the excuse of detention to not go to the ball?

After Cho's refusal, Harry procrastinated on asking any other girl in some feeble hope that she'd reconsider, but after Cho's death, Harry couldn't even bear the thought of asking another girl. So with less than three days until the ball, Harry was dateless.

When it came to the grief that was the Yule Ball, the only way Harry found himself able to cope was through denial, and his coping skilled with which he tried to deal with Cho's death were only little better. Cho...

"What flavor is this? Cherry? Strawberry? Something red. Whatever it is, I think I'm starting to like this lip-gloss. Hey, Harry," Ron's voice invaded Harry's thoughts, his freckled face smiling broadly, "can you believe Snape gave Rouge detention on _Christmas_?"

Harry smiled because he knew that if he didn't, he would never smile again. "Well, it means that Snape's got a date to the Yule Ball. That's what's unbelievable." Everyone laughed.

On Saturday, December 23, most students, third year and above, bundled up to buy last-minute Christmas gifts. The snow was relentless, sifting sugar onto a Christmas cake. Brown and white, the scenery was of sharp contrast with only traces of green from the evergreens. Snow piled around the bases of the trees, tapered upward as though to engulf the trees into a cold, white death. They would be reborn again in spring, but lost in late December, spring seemed so far away.

Snow clung like greedy fingers to their cloaks and boots, prying through their hair and dusting them with crystals and white until they seemed another part of the scenery. Third-years threw snowballs, laughing and bounding through the snow as older students trudged along through the trenches, chatting among their tight-knit groups.

Every breath from every body clouded at their lips, akin to the smoke a dragon would exhale. But Rouge thought—with Hogsmeade train station approaching from the distance—they looked like steam engines. Locomotives with billowing clouds raising high above them as they trundled along. Body machines—breathe in, breathe out. But no clouded breath formed at Rouge's lips, her tongue and teeth as cold as her nose, as if they too were exposed to the winter air. A cold body wrapped up in her cloak, with icy breaths issuing from beneath her hood. Without these wisps of clouded breath rising above her like a chain to the heavens, she felt invisible, free. She felt like a ghost, a specter, a wraith moving about the living unseen and unchained. With steadily bluing lips, she smiled.

Past the Quidditch stadium, down the drive, through the wrought-iron gates flanked by stone pillars topped by winged boars—_When pigs fly_, Rouge thought, and laughed to herself—and into the village.

The High Street of Hogsmeade looked like the cover of a Christmas card, cheery and quaint. Or a picture in a fairy-tale book, houses and shops of gingerbread with golden, brandy-sugar windows and white icing dripping from the roofs. The students were hungry Hansels and Gretels. But where was the witch?

Rouge went to go get a butterbeer, though she hadn't the faintest idea what a butterbeer was. She found herself tailing a group of sixth-year Ravenclaws and mixed Hufflepuffs, listening in to their conversations as though she were part of their group.

"Hey, let's pop on over to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer," one suggested, and was answered with murmurs of approval. At some distance, Rouge followed.

Once upon being inside the Three Broomsticks, she sat at a booth, keeping her hood lowered to keep the fact that she was a student from being too terribly overt. Students sitting alone draw attention. But she watched the other students as they went back and forth to the bar, ordering their drinks from the pretty barmaid with the turquoise shoes. _Sparkly_ turquoise. High-heels. When she had gone up to order, she didn't look at Madam Rosmerta directly, but rather gave her order to the mirror over the bar, and watched the flash of her shoes as she moved about the pub.

To Rouge, butterbeer tasted sickly sweet and burned at her throat. But she sipped at it anyway, watching the planets move around the face of her wristwatch, waiting for it to get near enough to noon.

Back on High Street, it was easy to blend into the crowd, but she didn't get lost in it. She could still see into every shop, decide if she wanted to go in, and then not. She'd already sent a letter of Christmas tidings to her mother, so she had no reason to go into the post office. Honeydukes was too crowded with students. She had no need for jokes and tricks, so she didn't give Zonko's even a second glance—also too crowded. Opposite Gladrag's Wizardwear, High Street branched and she turned to the right.

A few shops down, the head of a wild boar—severed, not simply with the body out of sight, but a severed head—bleeding onto a white cloth caught her eye. An emblem on a swinging sign. _Cheery_, thought Rouge, and entered the Hog's Head.

__

My god, she thought, upon entering, _this pub is like a matte painting._

Besides the artistic styling epiphany, her first impression was of how dirty it was. And the smell—the first thing you notice is the smell, but just from how _dirty_ the pub was, she wished she had brought a pair of gloves. Even at the door, she swore that there was an inch of dust on every surrounding surface. Her entrance was not noticed, so stalling for a moment, she touched the nearest wall and her fingertips left a visible trail in the dust, like snakes winding over sand. She could even see her own fingerprints. She should have brought a pair of gloves.

She noticed with surprising quickness that she could not see anyone's face in the pub, save the barman, whose face she was not entirely sure she _wanted_ to see. Following the patrons' example, she tugged down her hood a bit farther.

Carefully, she approached the bar, looking for a familiar face—...well, familiar _figure_, actually. But it was so dark, she could hardly see anything else about the pub's patrons. She was sure they'd still be obscured (if that was the word she was looking for) by the gloom even without their faces concealed. Were there even any windows in this place...?

Standing at the bar, she knew this wasn't a safe place for a fifteen-year-old girl to be alone. But she wasn't _supposed_ to be alone, she was meeting someone. She took a seat, not meeting the eyes of the barman so she wouldn't have to give him an order for a drink. But she felt more eyes on her, her skin prickling beneath an unknown gaze...

"_Rouge._"

She didn't turn, but instead slowly... shifted... her eyes... to the left. And beneath her hood, she smiled.

"_Queudver._"

A squat male figure in a cloak sat to her left and she could just makes out the dim light reflecting off his silver hand. So it wasn't a matte painting after all. _C'est Queudver_. It's Wormtail.

"Queudver" was a name that she'd given to him while struggling with hearing only English, all day, every day—a culture shock of sorts. That'd been early that summer. "Queue" was "tail," "de" was "of," and "ver" was "worm." _Queue de ver. _Tail of worm. _Queudver._ Wormtail.

He grinned at her. He'd always liked Rouge having a nickname for him. It meant that he was special to her. ...Even with all the times he couldn't help her...

"Happy Christmas." He slid a package over to her. It was no larger than her forearm—wrist to elbow—probably smaller, and wrapped up in what looked like old _Daily Prophets_ and Spellotape.

Rouge took the parcel and clutched it to her chest, smiling. It was her first Christmas present of the year.

"_Merci, Queudver. _Thank you."

"...I wasn't sure if you'd be getting many presents this year... I didn't want to ask—...your father... if he was going to give you something... and... and I thought... I thought it'd help—"

He stopped as she touched his hand.

"It means a lot to me."

There was a moment. Not of romance, but a moment of a certain kind of platonic love, all the same. This was real friendship. Perhaps even family.

Wormtail explained that he couldn't stay much longer; he'd be missed if he did. They exchanged farewells and "Happy Chrismas"es and "Joyeux Noël"es, and Rouge watched him exit the pub. She put the gift in her cloak, waited a few minutes to avoid as being seen leaving with Wormtail, for his safety, if not her own, and then stepped out into the light.

There was a herd of girls in Gladrags Wizardwear that winter afternoon. Usually, Rouge thought of them as packs, like wolves... or hyenas. But no, today they were a herd of frightened cattle, desperately looking for robes. Dress robes. That were pretty enough, that were their color and style and size, though the issue of price range rarely entered their minds as a concern. Their young, quixotic, _naïve_ minds would never process any doubt that their parents would send them the money on the fastest owls in Britain, however much it was, because of course their parents would do anything to make them happy. This was because most of these girls' parents had already sent them said money.

The fastest owls in Britain were getting a lot of work, this Christmas season. And were getting tired.

Oh what a world we live in.

But Rouge was not looking at dress robes. She was in the corner of the shop where accessories were displayed. She was looking at gloves, turning over a pair made of black silk in her hands. She held them up against the sleeve of her cloak; there was no difference in color. She tried them on, and they fit like a—...they fit to do justice to a cliché simile. As she dug into her pocket to retrieve some coins to pay for the gloves, she saw someone approaching her out of the corner of her eye, though didn't register an identity until there was a voice she could pin to the presence.

"All right, Red?"

Rouge turned and tried not to look at as surprised as she really was. It was Ron, and, in truth, she was shocked. Ron was talking to her? Wasn't he mad at her? (She'd inferred as such not from any outright admittance of such, but from the chilly and _silent_ disposition he'd displayed towards her these past few weeks.)

He didn't look altogether pleasant and friendly, though, which wasn't that surprising. His bottom lip was drawn in, biting it, and he wasn't quite even looking at her. But he was _talking_ to her, and she clung to that mercy. And "Red"... He'd called her by that during their brief interlude of a friendship. The boy was hopeless when it came to French.

"_Ça va, Roux._" So, of course, she gave him a French nickname and responded to his British colloquial greetings with those of the French persuasion.

"Ça va?" he attempted, his tongue wrapping unfamiliarly around the two syllables. SAH-VAH.

"_Oui._" WEE. 'Yes.' "_Ça va._"

"...What's it mean again?"

"It's a cultural expression. The literal translation is something like... 'It goes,' I think. Life, you know. Life... _goes_, whether it be good or bad. _Ça va._ It goes."

"Yeah." He smiled, just a little bit, and met her gaze. "And 'Roux'?" Absolutely hopeless. His 'r's were painful, pushed to the front of his mouth when he pronounced ROO. French 'r's stay in the back of the throat, and the 'n's in the nose.

"I've told you this before. It means 'redhead.' R-O-U-X. _Roux_."

"R-O-U-_X_? How does that spell 'Roux'?"

"It's French. It just does. You don't pronounce the 'x'. And in English, how does o-u-g-h end the words—" She counted them off her fingers, "—'tough,' 'though,' and 'through,' but make completely different sounds?"

"Yeah, okay, I see what y'mean, Red... Well, couldn't I call you 'Roux', too?" he asked, as he glanced at her hair and those faithful red streaks.

"_No_... I'd be '_Rousse_'."

"Rousse?"

She smiled. "Well, '_Roux_' is masculine. '_Rousse_' is feminine."

The neurons in his head fired. "Oh, and because you're a girl—"

"Vive la difference."

He grinned. "_Ça va_, Red."

So did she. "_Ça va, Roux._"

It was Christmas Eve, and things were almost back to the way they were before, during that brief interlude of friendship back in... November, wasn't it? Yes, early November... before the snow... Rouge and Ron didn't speak of the long stretch of silence between them that had lasted all those weeks, pretended it hadn't happened. Didn't address it then, wouldn't address it now.

Rouge was vaguely aware of the common room around her—she and Ron, she amended—but all her attention was focused on the black-and-white-checkered board on the table between her and the redhead who she occasionally gave a fragment of her attention to. But he was just as absorbed in the game as she was. And he was actually _good_ at chess. As was it good for him to play chess. The Quidditch cancellation issue still sore for him, it was good for him to remember that he was good at other things.

"Pawn to d4," Ron directed, and the round-topped, lily-white piece hopped forward.

"La reine va en a4," Rouge replied, and her dark-crowned queen slunk to the left. Neither of them looked up, or had in some time, or probably would in some time.

"...I don't think it's fair that your pieces don't understand English," Ron commented. "Can't understand what you or your pieces are saying."

"Not everything can be bilingual. And _your_ set's accent is so thick, I assure you, anyone not a native Englishman hasn't any hope of understanding it."

"That bad, eh?"

"_Oui._" Yes.

It had become an unconditional law of time and space that Rouge always played the black pieces, Ron always the white. It had also become a vested fact that Rouge always lost. Of course, Ron always offered to let her play white, but Rouge was insistent in her refusals.

She found comfort in the constant, clear-cut, black-and-white ways of chess. There is no gray in chess. That was comforting. Ron played white, she played black. Ron won, she lost. If it were any other way, it would make gray, and she didn't want any more gray. She submitted to the dogma of white and black because it was just so much simpler that way.

There was black and white in life, too. On that symbolic morality scale, for example, Ron was white. She believed that strongly. Harry and Hermione, too. White. Of course.

Her father, on the other hand, was black. If there was any great truth to this, it was that her father was the former of the black-and-white morality.

But then there were gray areas in life, wherein names like "Wormtail" fell. _Queudver._ He was Death Eater, like herself, and a follower of her father, O Great _Dark_ Lord. And even as a person, she'd heard of how terrible he was, of the way he'd betrayed his friends...

...But he was kind to her. Gave her a Christmas present, which she now had tucked away in her trunk, waiting to be opened tomorrow morning.

The contradiction made a great big gray splotch.

And then there was Snape. _Severus._ He was a gray area if she ever knew one. Just the sheer mystery... He was her friend. He told her so. But that fact alone made some suspicious gray. He told her that he was her friend, but they had to be secret friends... And yet, she hardly had the grounds to complain. She found herself trusting these gray areas. The only reason they were gray at all was because they'd shown _kindness_ to her—that they'd shown so semblance of humanity. So what did that make Ron? _Blinding_ white?

...And Draco. The name sauntered across her mind like pretentious sin, demanding that attention be drawn to itself in her little mental list.

She'd have trouble with this one.

Black or white? Rouge pondered, a chess piece held poised between her thumb and index finger, then decided.

Gray. Definitely gray. Involuntarily, a mental image of Draco appeared before Rouge's eyes—a picture of, specifically, his eyes.

Gray eyes. Pale eyes. Silver eyes. Irises spun of spider webs and dusted with frost and ice. There was something intangible about those eyes, something so delicate as to not be untouched by human hands. Gossamer with wraiths. Ethereal. Empyreal. Forged from the same divine fires as souls and angel wings. Or yet, the six wings of a seraph, of fiery, serpentine angels of vengeance, of righteous penalty of sin, of burning love.

Eyes made of something above reality and those bound to it, above the conscious mind. Eyes made of twilight, of gloaming, of dusk, of the unions between Somnus, Morpheus, and Mors. Sleep, Dreams, and Death. They were oneiric eyes.

Gray, she decided again.

But what about herself? What was she?

...Well, some chess sets have red instead of black as the opposing side. Maybe she was that.

This was all just inside her head, of course. What was going on across the chess board between Rouge and Ron were distracted tidbits of conversation, tamely breaking the silence not already broken by their chess sets. Rouge's set gave her guerilla tactics in rapid, shady-sounding French, and would occasionally burst into a verse of the French national anthem to boost morale. Ron's set, on the other hand, was winning.

"Queen to c4," Rouge heard him say. She hardly remembered the move she previously made, and she watched his queen make a waddle to the left. He asked, "Play much chess."

"Pardon?" She hadn't been listening, but he was hardly listening himself, transfixed by the game.

"Play much chess?" he repeated with different inflection, as if his delivery would help her hearing.

"Some," she answered. "Bought this set in town on Bastille Day." Said chess set burst into the anthem again. "Hence the jingoistic manner of this particular set."

"Bastille Day?"

"French Independence Day. The angry peasants stormed the Bastille—it's a prison in Paris—and, thus, marked the beginning of the French Revolution. It's supposed to be symbolic... ending the absolute and arbitrary power of Louis XVI, beginning the birth of the Republic... just a lot of symbolism. But Bastille Day itself is the celebration of the decapitation of the French monarchy."

"Decapitation?"

"Do you know Sir Nicolas?"

"Y'mean Nearly Headless Nick—...oh."

Tidbits of conversation like that. Silly little bits of conversation like that.

"Another good word, like 'decapitation', is 'defenestration'," Rouge found herself saying.

"And it means...?" Ron prompted.

"The act of throwing something, or someone, out of a window."

"Defenestration?"

"Yeah. 'La fenêtre' is 'window' in French, which is from the Latin 'fenestra'. I have no idea how you English lot came up with the word 'window'. Isn't English supposed to be Latin-based?"

"We steal bits of vocabulary from whoever we conquer, so English is a bit of a hodge-podge language, really, but... _defenestration_? Is that really a word?"

"Yeah."

"Th'act of throwin' somethin' out a window?"

"Yeah."

"So y'mean there's really a word for throwing someone out a window?"

"Yeah. To defenestrate someone."

"Hmm," Ron declared. "...Wow."

"Yeah, I know."

The fruits of two distracted minds.

Most of Rouge's attention was on one of Ron's pawns, watching it make the long trek across the board, one move at a time, one space at a time. Ron directed his queen a bit about too, but mainly it was that one little lily-white pawn. d4. d5. d6. She was hardly aware of what she was doing with her own pieces. They were merely moving about and around this one pawn, merely background, rotational heavenly bodies in the microcosm of chess all around this one little pawn making its own little way across the board.

It made her think of "Alice in Wonderland". Oh, but it'd be "Through the Looking Glass", would it? Yes, that was the one, the whole story one big chess game, and the heroine was just a little girl who joins the game as a pawn and becomes a queen. She remembered loving the stories about Alice when she was a little girl. She now supposed the reason she'd liked the books so much was because she'd been able to believe that she could be just like Alice. Alice was just a little girl—a seven-year-old girl—who had fantastic things happening to her. It wasn't because she was beautiful or a princess or other such things like in other fairytales; she had these adventures simply because she was curious. And though we can't all be princesses, we can all be curious.

"Pawn to d7," said Ron, and Rouge's stomach gave a lurch. Oh, just _one space off_, and her knight would've been able to take that pawn...! She gave no attention to either of the kings, or any other pieces for that matter, just that one pawn...

"Le cavalier va en e7," said Rouge. Her knight made its awkward L-shaped move and sidled up close to Ron's pawn, brandishing its great club threateningly.

"Did you have many friends at Beauxbatons?" asked Ron, his eyes scanning the board, and Rouge shrugged. "Knight to e7," Ron added triumphantly, and his knight came to his pawn's rescue. The two knights dueled, banging at each other with their clubs, but Rouge's knight lost the duel and was forced to gallop off the board.

Rouge frowned. She was losing badly. This wasn't just her losing-streaks, but she was losing _dignity,_ here! And still she watched that pawn make its journey to the eighth square... and it did make it. Ron declared it a queen and Rouge commented, "Ah, a coronation, then." He smiled a bit, but this was followed by a long pause. All she had left was her king and her queen... What move could she make...? So absorbed in thought was she that she didn't notice that Ron had turned up his head and was watching her. Nothing could have prepared her for what would break the silence.

"How come you never told me that you asked Harry to the ball?"

And Rouge actually looked up, blinking. "...I...I didn't think it was important." Ron returned his gaze to the board, and she offered feebly, "La reine va en e8."

Ron was silent for some time, seeming to be thinking hard. Then, "..._coronated_ pawn to e8," he said, taking her queen. "You're right. It's not important... oh, and, 'check,' by the way." But even then, Rouge was too late to save her king.

The Gryffindor Triumvirate was alone in the common room. The hour was late and everyone else had retreated to bed. Rouge had left the common room some time ago, offering the excuse to Ron that she'd left something in the library. It was past curfew now and she still hadn't returned, but, absorbed in their own thoughts and doings, her housemates had forgotten her.

Hermione, who'd apparently learned to knit—_when did she learn how to knit_? Harry wondered—was knitting something pink... and fluffy, as she read a book propped open in her lap. Even on Christmas Eve, she multitasked to make full use of her time. Upon further investigation, she _proclaimed_ that the pink fluffy something would eventually be a sweater for Crookshanks. A particularly bored Ron _proclaimed_ that she was mental.

Ron, overcome by boredom, had finally gotten out his _Cleansweep Seven_ and was polishing the handle with one of his old sweaters ("Why not? I'll be getting another one tomorrow."), insisting that he didn't know what else to do. He murmured something about polishing the broom up a bit before he put it away for a whole year. This mourning over a lost Quidditch season was beginning to get out of hand, Hermione felt, and she _suggested_ that he get some homework done if he really didn't know what else to do—they certainly had enough homework over the holidays, with the O.W.L.s coming up later this year. Ron _suggested_, upon the defense that it was "bloody Christmas Eve," that she was mental.

Harry was thinking of _suggesting_ that they both go on off to bed, though he knew that they wouldn't, not until he'd gone to bed, too. After leaving him alone in the common room Wednesday night and how terrible he'd looked Thursday morning, his best friends had decided that it was detrimental to his health and wellbeing to be left alone to brood. In fact, they seemed determined to keep him from brooding at all, whether or not they were present.

"Why don't we go down and visit Hagrid?" Ron suggested to the group, though Harry knew it was specifically for him. "I bet he's up, and we can wish him a Happy Christmas."

"Not now," said Harry, not meeting their eyes, but Ron was not to be daunted in his task, his _duty_, of being cheerful.

"How... how about we sneak down to the kitchens? Dobby could give us a preview of Christmas Tea tomorrow. Couldn't you go for some Christmas pudding, swimming in brandy butter—?"

"Not tonight. Not now."

Ron and Hermione shared a significant look that Harry wasn't supposed to see but saw anyway.

"Harry..." Ron began, struggling at first, but then barreling on intently, "Listen, Harry, with all these things that have been going on, everything that's happened... we've been thinking that maybe we should—" But Harry already knew. For the past four years, it'd been the same, that mischievous air already breathing into life, that adventurousness, that foolhardy Gryffindor bravery. And Harry was done.

"NO!" Harry shouted so loudly that both Ron and Hermione jumped. Harry didn't care how late it was; he _wanted_ to shout at them. He'd wanted to shout at them all year. "No more investigations! No more mysteries! No more adventures! Don't you get it?! Cedric's dead! Cho's dead! I _watched_ Cedric die— _We all watched _Cho _die_! All these people are dead and it changes everything!"

"_Harry..._" His name came from somewhere deep within Hermione's throat, _pleading_, "Harry, we know you fancied—...well, we know Cho was important to you, and... and we know how hard the night Cedric died was for you... But Cho's death was an accident, and there was nothing you could do about Cedric—"

"Fine!" Harry interrupted, bitingly, _viciously._ He didn't care that they were only trying to help. He didn't want this kind of help. "Fine, if there's really nothing I can do, what's the point of having another little adventure?! We're—we're kids, we're just _kids_! We can't save the world all the time...! Where's our time to just be _kids_?!"

Harry got up from his armchair and made a beeline, not for the stairs to his dorm, but for the portrait hole, but then— "_...Harry..._" Hermione again. Harry didn't know when she started crying, probably while he'd been shouting, but she was definitely crying now. Ron just stared. "...Harry, where are you going?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I'll figure that out when I get there." He stepped through the portrait hole and out of sight, but he'd been gone before he'd even left his armchair.

It took a while to calm Hermione down and even longer to get her to stop crying. She just sat there for a long time, sniffling and hiccuping sobs, and Ron, sitting on the couch with her, tentatively held her and awkwardly patted her in what could only be assumed as in a comforting matter. But the sentiment was sincere, and Hermione seemed to appreciate it. She clung to him, too distressed for caring about limitations of platonic proximity. All Ron could think to do was pat her, trying to be as comforting as he could. They both felt distressed over Harry, but if Hermione was going to cry, Ron had to keep himself together.

When Hermione calmed down enough to speak, she asked, still hiccuping and bit, "W-what... what are we going to do about H-harry...?"

"I dunno," Ron admitted truthfully. "I guess we'll just have to wait for him to snap out if it."

Hermione gave a loud hiccup and Ron patted her. She thought to say something about how unsympathetic Ron was—_you don't just "snap out of" grief!_—but she couldn't think of a better plan, so she simply let Ron pat her.

"I mean, where could he go?" Hermione asked fitfully. "It's after curfew, so what's still unlocked? The library—? ...The library... Rouge said that she went down to the library... She hasn't come back yet, and now Harry's out there—" She seemed panicked suddenly, leaning forward on the edge of the couch.

"What are you getting at, 'Mione?"

She faltered for a moment, then sat back again. "...Nothing. It's nothing. It's just... Rouge..." She looked up at him. "What happened between you two?"

"What?"

"You and Rouge. You were acting rather oddly toward her for a while. You were friends with her for a bit, weren't you? But after you got the Keeper position, you two... just stopped talking."

"Oh. That. Well... we had a... a bit of a falling out, I guess."

"What, was she jealous of you for getting on the team?"

"No—...no, or at least I don't think so... We didn't have a row or anything, we just... stopped talking."

"Well, what happened?"

Ron shifted a bit in his seat. "Well... I... well, _she_... That day, when I got the Keeper position... I found her that night, going down the corridor; I guess she didn't see me... But I followed her, y'see, all the way outside... It was dark already, but I saw her—...I saw her with Malfoy." Hermione could feel Ron grow tense beside her. She grew tense herself. "They were talking all quietly together, I couldn't hear 'em, nestled up nice and close, and they walked off together and... and... well, what was I supposed to think? She was—... was...!" he struggled for the words to finish his accusation in his fervor and vehemence.

"Fraternizing with the enemy?" Hermione offered, and Ron exploded with a passionate, "Yeah!"

She wondered if he remember using that same phrase almost exactly one year ago. She did.

"But now you two are friends again," Hermione stated with every possibility of it being a question. He rose his eyebrows at her, so she added, "...you were playing chess with her."

Ron shrugged, clearly taking the matter lightly. He didn't see a few games of wizard chess as "fraternizing with the enemy," or perhaps not Rouge as "the enemy."

"You'd said no."

The sheer simplicity of the statement caught Hermione off guard and she fumbled for an answer. He _had_ asked her if she wanted to play, but, "I... I was busy. I have all that homework—"

"It was just a game of chess, Hermione."

Despite how without accusation Ron had said it, Hermione still got a pang of guilt from the statement. She wasn't sure if he meant it was only a game of chess with Rouge, it wasn't a big deal and she was _making_ a big deal out of it. Or that he meant that it was only a game of chess, and she probably could have taken a break from her studies for just _one game._

Either way, she felt a weight of guilt that she hadn't intended on.

Ron still had his broom, tail to the floor, handle leaning against the arm of the couch, and he stared at it, considering it.

"You know," he said after a moment of silent thought, a moroseness suddenly clinging to his words, "maybe it's for the best that this year's Quidditch season was cancelled. I mean, I shouldn't have been picked for the Keeper position, I'm not cut out for it. That charm you put on me during the try-outs was the only reason I made it, I'm sure of it. Did I even deserve—?"

But Hermione was laughing. Here he was, bearing his soul to her, and she was _laughing_!

"What are you laughing at?!"

"_You_!" she exclaimed. "Of _course_ you deserve the position, Ron! That charm— what was it? _Illudious?_ Oh, Ron, that charm was a placebo!"

Ron _stared_ at her. "What?"

"A placebo! A dud! That charm wasn't _real._ It doesn't _do anything._ It's psychology, Ron. It's the idea of... oh, how to phrase it... you know, wanting, like, medication, for example, so badly, that even if you don't get it and you _think_ you get it, you think it's working and even feel the effects of if you'd had it. It's psychology."

Ron was so stunned, her explanation hardly penetrated his skull. "You mean... I got the position on my own?" That fact seemed to have reached his understand, and he was so dumbfounded, too happy to possibly believe it.

"All on your own."

Smiling, Hermione said nothing more, gazing into the fireplace and watching the merry blaze reflect in the tinsel hung on the mantle. Ron felt an immense relief within him, having shared these painful pieces of information that he'd held secret for so long, and he felt immensely grateful for Hermione, not just having her as a friend, but just Hermione.

Ron found himself looking at her almost expectantly—well... no, not quite. He was just looking at her, and, in his very male mind, identifying her. Hermione. Best mate— ...or, rather, one of two. Insufferable know-it-all usually came next, but he left that one out just now.

Girl.

Hermione was a girl—a member of the opposite sex that all those hormones told him to suddenly take an interest in. And because of his incredibly male mind, his mouth was voicing his thoughts before they got to fully form, never mind think through, "Have you gotten a date to the ball yet?"

Hermione looked at him. "You mean the ball tomorrow?"

And she was supposed to be clever! "There's another?"

She looked away, brow furrowing. "...Well, Neville asked me again..."

"You didn't accept, did you?" The panic in his voice was almost endearing.

"I told him... maybe."

Ron considered this. "And in the strange, incomprehensible language you girls speak, that means 'no'?"

"Generally," she conceded, and Ron laughed a bit. There was a pause.

"...He didn't ask Ginny again, did he?" The brotherly concern was actually quite endearing, here.

"He did, but she declined," Hermione assured him. "She's going with Colin."

"Colin?!" Not so assured, then.

"Yes. Colin."

"He's a bit of a... twitchy... kinda pesty kid, innhe?"

"He's a good guy."

Ron wasn't so sure. Brotherly over-protectiveness wouldn't allow it. "And what do you think qualifies as a 'good guy'?"

"Well... you're a good guy."

Ron hadn't been expecting that.

...But suddenly his opinion of Colin increased dramatically.

...And he had to do it. Right now. Because if he didn't, he was sure he'd never have the courage to try some other time. And right now, at this very moment, it seemed so logical, it couldn't make any more sense, _right now..._

"Hermione, would you go to the ball with me?"

She looked at him, and suddenly them seemed so close—_too close_—but couldn't move. And Ron felt his throat tighten, his vocal chords constricting painfully, and he was glad that he wasn't the one who had to give an answer.

__

She was. And she did answer: "Maybe."

She gathered her knitting, long abandoned, and she got up to leave. It was late. They ought to be in bed. But the movement made her seem so far away after the closeness they'd shared. And he _made_ himself speak, croaking out the words, "And in that girl language, that's a 'no'?"

"Only generally," reminded him. "Good night, Ron."

Five floors of empty corridors, lonely stairs, and darkness Harry Potter thundered down, the smack of his feet in his shoes against the stones of the floor oddly satisfying, letting out his anger in the painful pressure, running, just running.

The second floor, now. Corridor. Empty. Stone walls and an arched ceiling that would resonate beautifully if he finally gave into his anger and just _screamed._ But the violence and craze that came with the emotions were dying down now, as if he'd lost them on one of the upper floors. Now he'd just have to hide from them for a while.

A bathroom door was a little ways off, an "Out of Order" sign hanging on it, but Harry didn't care. He just wanted to splash some water on his face or something. It was also a girls' bathroom, but he didn't much care about that either. Didn't really care about anything, as apathy is a common symptom of overwhelming angst.

The bathroom was dark, dank, and depressing. Harry rather liked it. It seemed to compliment or at least suit his current mood. He went all the way to the last sink in the row of them against the wall, feeling as though the last sink in a disused girls' bathroom was a good place to hide away at.

His face seemed so alone as he stared at it in the long, cracked mirror that stretched across the wall above the sinks. He didn't seem able to look at just his own reflection in the great big mirror, but was forced to take in the whole depressing bathroom and it made him feel small. He sighed and turned his eyes down to the chipped stone sink before him. He turned one of the taps. It didn't work. Tried the other one, and splashed the water on his face, leaning on the sink and cupping his face in his hands. The water was freezing (the pipes were probably all lined with ice this time of year), but it made him feel better. Good thing, too. It'd have killed him to cry twice in one week.

"The position of sulking about a girls' lavatory has already been rather filled, don't you think?" said a glum-sounding voice from somewhere behind him. Second floor. Girls' bathroom. "Out of Order." How could he have forgotten Moaning Myrtle?

"Hullo, Myrtle," said Harry with a sort of resigned hopelessness that could've given the sulking specter a run for her money. Apparently Myrtle noticed this.

She glided over to him, her translucent, silvery figure coming to perch on the edge of the sink next to him, hovering just above it. She peered intently at him from behind her thick, pearly glasses.

"And what's the matter with you? You haven't got anything to be _really_ upset about," she informed him as if she were the expert on misery. "You're alive."

"If this is being alive," Harry told her numbly, "then I don't much like living."

"Ooh, _that's_ original," Myrtle snapped sarcastically at him. "I was using _that_ line before you were even _born_. You think that you know pain? That you know suffering—?"

"I know pain."

That made Myrtle stop, and she was quiet again for some time. And they were able to be miserable, there in that awful bathroom, together. But Myrtle _had _to ask, "What's the matter, Harry?"

What's the matter? What's wrong? Oh, where to even _begin..._

The most pressing matter, he supposed, was that it was Christmas Eve. The Yule Ball was _tomorrow night._ Godric knows, he had no desire to go, but he had to _open_ the hellish holiday event with a dance. With his dance partner. Which would be hard, because he _had_ no dance partner. That was the most _pressing_ matter, he supposed.

He gave a sigh, and then gave his problem: "The girl I wanted to go with to the Yule Ball tomorrow di—... she died last week. And I... I haven't had the heart to ask anyone else."

Myrtle picked thoughtfully at a spot on her chin, considering Harry as well as his problem.

"...How about going with another dead girl instead?"

What seemed like millions and millions of years later, Harry was back in Gryffindor Tower, behind the curtains of his four-poster, in bed. The first million was just how long it seemed to take him to hear himself answer Myrtle's offer with a deep and meaningful, "_What_?" But these millions beyond _millions_ of seemed years later, as Harry lay in bed on Christmas Eve—and Christmas morning rapidly dawning—he believed quite certainly that he was insane.

He was going to the Yule Ball with Moaning Myrtle.

...His mind repeated that, just because it bore repeating. _He was going to the Yule Ball with Moaning Myrtle._

He rolled over, trying to fall asleep, and simply hoped that there wasn't a rule against going to the ball with a ghost.

"_...Douce nuit... sainte nuit..._" Rouge sang softly to herself—"Douce Nuit", a French Christmas carol to the tune of "Silent Night"—sang quietly as she worked, "_...Dans les cieux... l'astre luit..._"

She wasn't sure how long ago she'd found this place, this long, hidden room behind a mirror on the fourth floor. There were lots of mirrors on the fourth floor, she'd noticed. But one night, past curfew and she was out of bed (she'd been down on the Quidditch pitch, practicing with Draco, back in November), she'd stopped in front of this particular mirror. She imagined herself as Alice, clambering up onto the mantle to look closely at the mirror above the fireplace, talking on and on to herself about the looking-glass house just on the other side... Through the Looking Glass.

She'd pressed the palms of her hands against the surface of the mirror, and though she imagined it—and it'd seemed so _clear_—the mirror did not turn to bright silvery mist beneath her hands that she could climb right through.

But she was certain she'd felt it give, just a little. _Let's pretend there's a way of getting through into it, somehow_, she thought to herself, and, feeling almost silly, she got out her wand, and tried, "_Alohomora._"

The glass melted away, revealing a long, empty chamber, made all of windowless stone walls.

This was her looking-glass house, then. So she'd make her own garden of live flowers.

She smuggled in the materials, sent away for the seeds, and now visited her garden behind the mirror at least once a week. She liked feeling as though she had a place all her own to go, liked the feeling of growing something again.

"_...Le mystère annoncé s'accomplit..._" she sang on, cutting a few select roses from the bushes. She hadn't passed up the opportunity of magic in her botanical work. She'd sped them along in their growth so that they were fully mature within a few weeks. She wanted flowers in time for Christmas.

Three roses she cut—one still only a bud—that she'd treated herself. Her mother had taught her well.

But not only did she grow roses and other such flora coveted for their flowers. She grew perennial herbs, too. One in particular she had to nurture with heating charms and plenty of space was _Arisaema dracontium._ Dragon root. Green dragon. Over two feet tall, the herb towered, with an arc of long leaflets on the top of the stem, stretching like an outspread wing. Delicately, Rouge cut away one of its flowers, the fleshy, green sheath it was, with a long protruding, pale yellow tongue—a dragon's tongue.

Rouge liked to believe that everything had a meaning. Flowers, flowers especially, they had meanings, even herbs.

"_...Cet enfant sur la paille endormi..._"

But even as she set her long-tongued dragon root flower aside with her roses, she knew that maybe it wouldn't be appreciated, not being a traditional, many-petal-bearing bloom. So for good measure, she also cut a yellow chrysanthemum, and tied around it the lead of a Virginia Creeper.

But she had to hurry back to the common room with her bundle of flowers. She needed to catch Barmy, her dear, favorite house-elf, and ask him to make the delivery of a Christmas present down to the dungeons, to a certain student of Slytherin House.

Yes, she'd treated the Green Dragon to rid of its poisonous qualities. She wasn't trying to poison her once-accomplice. She was just giving him some flowers with meanings.

"_...C'est l'amour infini... C'est l'amour infini._"

__

"Sweet night, holy night,

In the heavens, the star shines.

The foretold mystery comes true.

This child sleeping on the hay,

Is infinite love,

Is infinite love!"


	16. Filial Obligation

Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell.

Note to readers: There's plot. Honestly. ...But besides that, this is for my lovely ship (though it is more like a toilet nestled in a floating tire), U.S.S. U-Bend, or more commonly known as Harry/Myrtle. :-P We've got to have _some_ fun with this stuff. Don't worry, it's not an actual ship of this fic, just a little fun with the ball (which was a big mistake having in this fic in the first place, I admit it wholeheartedly, but I'm trying to work with what I've started, here). I was agonizing one day on whom Harry should go to the ball with, and my dear mother suggested, "How about Myrtle?" It's been one of my favorite ships ever since. ...And we must vent the teenage hormones, you know.

Chapter 16: Filial Obligation

"Evil when we are in its power is not felt as evil but as a necessity, or even a duty."

- Simone Weil (1909 - 1943), _Gravity and Grace_, 1947

Gryffindor Tower was awakened Christmas morning by the sound of a scream.

"Oh my _god_, Parvati! My skin's gotten all _spotty_!"

Presents were, for the most part, ignored as the inhabitants of the Gryffindor fifth-year girls' dorm worked to calm Lavender, who was having a fit of hysterics before a mirror. The day of the Yule Ball, and Lavender had been inflicted by a random bout of blemish-inducing teenage hormones. Parvati managed to keep her head as her best friend neared tears. "It's all right, Lav, it's only one spot, and the ball's _hours_ and _hours_ away. Madam Pomfrey's sure to have some bubotuber pus that'll clear it right up. Surely with the beautifying powers of magic we have today, we can overcome _one spot._ Hermione, would you pop down to the Hospital Wing?"

"I can't," said Hermione. "Sorry, Lavender, but I've got to get ready for the ball as much as you two."

This promptly distracted Parvati. "Ooh, Hermione, who are you going with—?" she began, but was interrupted by Lavender, "_What about my spottiness_?!"

"_I'll_ go and get the bubotuber pus for you, Lavender!" Rouge offered (loudly, so she could be heard over the ruckus), taking herself away from looking through the presents at the foot of her bed. There was a package from her mother with a letter attached. She took the letter and headed out of the dormitory as Parvati still attempted to wheedle information from Hermione. For once, the bushy-haired bookworm was reluctant to give a fact.

__

Chère ma chérie, the letter began, and Rouge read on as she descended those spiral stairs. _'Dear my darling'_. Reading the letter over and over, she found herself shocked by the letter. But what about it? It's... _casualness_, maybe? Her mother wrote of flowers at home, how some of the new breeds were coming along. Wrote of how she hoped the seeds Rouge had asked for had come in time. Were they to be Christmas presents? For someone special?

The letter was no different than any of the letters Rouge's mother had sent her while at Beauxbatons. The letter said nothing of Rouge being in England at all, of Hogwarts... or even of her father. But, as Rouge supposed, what could her mother possibly say about all that had happened...?

...But, at the end of the letter, there was a sudden and unexplained apology. And throughout the letter, she'd said how much, over and over "_je t'aime._"

__

'I love you.'

"Oy! Harry! Wake up!"

Harry was awakened unceremoniously by a pillow being flung at him, with the only explanation from his pillow-wielding best friend being, "_Presents_!"

There indeed were presents. Baked goods and a sweater from Mrs. Weasley. Sweets from Ron. A book from Hermione (she'd given a book to Ron as well, and he frowned at it—"Honestly... books were never meant to be given as presents..."). There were some furry mittens from Hagrid; Harry decided he didn't want to know what they were made of. There was even a roll of Sellotape from the Dursleys.

"Pro'lly for your glasses," Ron observed wisely around a mouthful of cake, already digging into his Christmas treats.

"Guess they haven't noticed that I haven't had any tape on my glasses for years, now," commented Harry. "They're held together by magic nowadays."

"Much more reliable," said Ron.

There was a comforting consistency to it all. But as he took a bite of a biscuit from Mrs. Weasley, he noticed something nestled prettily in the blankets at the end of his bed—he'd thrown his Christmas sweater on top of it as he unwrapped his presents and hadn't seen it. But after having put the sweater _on_, knowing that it'd be cold today, there it was.

"Hey, what's this...?"

It was a rosebud, but certainly not like any he'd seen before. It was _black_ but... a beautiful shade of black, dark, but rich and velvety. The base of the bud was yellow, as if bright flames were creeping up beneath the flower, or the sun was setting over the bud's horizon, making way for black night. And on the very tips of the bud's unopened petals was the faintest touch of deep, deep crimson. It was a beautiful flower, but... just... _strange._

Ron came over to look. "Hey, I got a flower, too." He'd gotten two, actually, and held them up for inspection. One deep red, one dark pink, and tied around the red one was a laurel leaf. Each boy studied their floral gift before exchanging glances with each other. Confused, curious glances.

"Did you get a note with yours?" Ron asked. "A name? Anything? I didn't."

"No, me neither," said Harry.

Ron looked closely at his pink rose, holding it up to the light as if he expected to see a name revealed in the illumination and shine through. But he didn't, so he had some more cake.

Down in the dungeons that knew no seasons, where it was always dark, damp, and cold, it was also Christmas. Slytherins, too, were waking up to find presents at the foot of their beds, nestled in bottle green sheets.

Draco Malfoy liked Christmas. He was a materialistic person because he could afford to be, and Christmas was a holiday of commercialism, capitalism, and materialism—his favorite 'ism's. Who would ever think this was a religious holiday founded on the birth of the messiah of Christianity? Not Draco Malfoy, and he liked Christmas.

He'd received a good load of things this year. A great lot of nice things from doting family members, from his mum especially, and from school friends who thought that they could impress him.

Imagine his surprise at finding, among the pretty packages, a couple of flowers. Honestly, _flowers._ Well, one he could tell was a flower—this great yellow round-ish thing with all the petals—but the other one was a little more peculiar.

He could tell it was a flower of some sort, but not like a daisy, a tulip, a rose, or anything like that. It was just a fleshy... green... _sheath_, that's the best word he could think of, and a thin, longish... pale yellow stalk-like thing protruding out of it. Stalk? Was that even the word?

But it was sort of pretty, in an odd, exotic sort of way. He liked it, feeling as if it were something that only he could appreciate in it unusualness. But what Draco couldn't understand was why anyone would give _flowers_—especially one like _this_—as a Christmas present and without even a _note_...

He stuck the odd, green-and-yellow flower in a bedside drawer, but kept the many-petal, yellow one out. He knew that Pansy's dress robes were gold-trimmed. He'd give the flower to her.

Rouge didn't get the diluted bubotuber pus from Madam Pomfrey—she didn't trust that nurse _at all_—but instead got it straight from Professor Sprout. It was probably just because of their work in Herbology, but the professor reminded Rouge of her mother. Rouge found herself visiting Professor Sprout occasionally, after the day's classes, out in the greenhouses. She'd offer to help with standard maintenance – repotting things, watering things, and pruning things. She'd even once helped placate some Bowtruckles with offerings of wood lice while Professor Sprout collected samples from the trees that the Bowtruckles inhabited. They even captured one by luring one of the tiny tree-guardians into an empty pot that they covered with an empty dragon dung compost bag. Professor Sprout gave the Bowtruckle to Hagrid to use for a class. But that while a while ago, before the snow. Professor Sprout appreciated the help, Rouge was sure, as well as the enthusiasm of a student. Rouge appreciated the company.

"You will come back soon, won't you?" the earthy, aplomb witch asked Rouge as she headed out of the sultry greenhouse and back out into the snow with her prize of diluted bubotuber pus. "You know how hard it is to take care of some of these specimens so deep in winter _alone_."

Rouge promised that she would.

Lavender had calmed down for the most part by the time that Rouge had returned to the dormitory. Parvati thanked Rouge profusely for going to get the bubotuber pus, then hurried back over to the shine before the mirror that Lavender was performing her holy, martyr-like suffering. Parvati had to assist her friend before she took the whole martyr thing too seriously.

Rouge curled back in bed to open her Christmas presents. Her mother had sent her some gardening supplies, including some new seeds and detailed reports on the new breeds. She put the supplies away. But also in the package was a large box of expensive chocolate truffles. Ah, chocolate—a guilty pleasure. She ate one, just one—she had to pace herself—and offered each of the other girls a chocolate as well, and wished them a happy Christmas.

It wasn't until the others had left for the Christmas Feast at midday—Rouge opting not to go—that she dug out Wormtail's gift from where she hid it in her trunk. She eagerly tore off the meager wrapping to uncover... a knife. Or was it a dagger? She didn't know the difference. The blade itself was... four... maybe five inches long, she estimated, with a hilt covered in ornate silver carvings. She clasped the handle firmly; she could keep a good grip on it. It looked vaguely antique, but Rouge still ended up nicking her finger quite badly when she'd decided to test the sharpness of the blade.

There was a note tied to the handle with a bit of string. The handwriting was a bit unaesthetic, but Rouge could tell he'd put effort into making it neat. _Dear Rouge,_ it read. _I thought this would help you. Happy Christmas. From, Wormtail._

She tucked the note and the knife away in her trunk, after admiring the silver blade for a few moments—silver... just like Wormtail's hand... Giving great thanks for having such friends, Rouge wrapped up her bleeding finger in an old handkerchief and waited for it to stop bleeding.

The next few hours in that dorm, when the other girls had returned that afternoon, mainly consisted of the pain rituals that only girls knew, and did solely for the sake of beauty. It was part of that most basic instinct that a female had, that made girls so much more vicious—_especially_ to each other—in ways that boys would never know. They had males to impress tonight, males to impress and win.

Rouge did not join them, though she found herself watching them occasionally, as if their preparations for the ball were a spectator sport. But by evening, and as the ball loomed nearer with every bell-toll, Rouge retreated down to the common room, tired of watching her dorm-mates fuss with their dress robes and their hair and their make-up...

Of the people coming down, dressed for the ball, of course the boys were the first, standing around nervously and awkwardly. Ron was among them. She caught his eye, waved him over, and offered him a chocolate truffle, which he took, smiling and looking a little less nervous. She could tell he'd put at least some effort into looking tidy. He'd washed his face, combed his hair, and was wearing some midnight blue dress robes that looked really quite nice on him.

"You look good," she told him appreciatively.

"They were my brother's," said Ron, as if it were some form of self-deprecation, as if the dress robes not originally being his would make him unattractive, or make her take the compliment back.

But she wouldn't. "Doesn't mean that you don't look good."

The one-half fractions of couples waited around for their dates, for their other halves. Ron sat with Rouge for a while, and he briefly entertained the thought of asking Ron who his dance partner was, but decided that it wasn't important, and left the question unasked.

"Pity about your detention and all," said Ron, though Rouge wasn't sure if he really meant it.

"Ah, well, it _is _Snape. What do you expect? It's his idea of holiday cheer, I suppose."

He gave her a small smile for that. "Happy Christmas, Red."

"Oh, yes, a _Happy Christmas_ indeed, Roux."

About here, Harry'd come down from the boys' dormitories, and, with a brief goodbye, Ron abandoned Rouge for his emerald-green-clad best mate. Harry was truly tense, Ron could sense it with just a glance. They hadn't even talked about the ball since Cho's head. Ron didn't even know what Harry's dance partner situation was.

"...You know, Harry... I bet Hermione would dance with you... to open the ball, y'know... she'd do it, if you just asked her..." Ron offered feebly.

"But _you _asked her, didn't you?" Harry argued mildly, and Ron couldn't reply to that - his ears were too busy pinking. "Don't worry, Ron, I've got a date."

But Ron had a reply to _that._ "You got a date? Who?"

Harry just smiled. A sad, silly sort of smile, but it was a smile all the same.

By this point, all this ball was supposed to be to this school was a morale boost. That's all. An attempt to make everything a little nicer, a little prettier. The whole castle was made-up to be prettier... and lights, lights _everywhere_, glowing from within the suits of armor that were collared with wreaths, spilling out of the spaces and crevices. And even from the Entrance Hall, when they'd opened the doors at eight o'clock, Harry could see the twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall, lights gleaming golden from the ornaments and the stars. There was a glitter even to the snow.

Couples meeting, joining hands; there was radiance to that, too.

But a ghost was waiting for Harry in the Entrance Hall. Hermione was there in her periwinkle, Ron in midnight blue, but it was translucent silver that waited for him. Silver as the frost dusted on the walls, icicles on the banisters, glistening in the candlelight, touched on the tips of every garland of ivy and holly.

And when they opened the dance, Harry led, and Myrtle glided across the floor with him

Rouge did not go down to the dungeons that night. Severus was down there, everyone thought that Rouge was down there, and if anyone asked Severus, Rouge _was_ down there. That's what made the alibi work.

Rouge waited a long time, though not in the common room where first, second, and third years could say that they saw her waiting until that moment. She waited out in deserted corridors. She'd even stashed her cloak and gloves behind a suit of armor in a darkened alcove beforehand. Leaving the common room in her cloak and gloves might catch someone's attention; someone might remember it.

No, she left Gryffindor Tower at a quarter after eight—a time she'd prearranged with Severus. If asked, they both would answer that Rouge arrived at Severus's office at eight-thirty. Why so late? To say she'd stopped and peered into the Great Hall. Why? To watch people dance. The decorations were also quite a sight to see, too.

She'd arranged with Severus that the story was that he'd kept her in detention until just before midnight—so she wouldn't have to deal with the crowds heading back to their common rooms from the ball. She would have to be back in Gryffindor Tower shortly after midnight. That gave her some time.

It was all prearranged.

Rouge had stalked the girl—the first name on the list—these past few days, and found out that she was going to the ball. Found out who the girl's date was, too – an on-and-off boyfriend, rumor had it. She stalked him for a while, as well.

He'd been bragging to his friends. He was going to pull her away from the ball, get her alone. Tonight just might be the night, he'd said. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Say no more. The friends had 'ooh'ed appreciatively. "Where 're y'gonna take 'er?" one had asked, and the boy told him.

Rouge overheard it all.

Rouge had left Gryffindor Tower at a quarter after eight, normally dressed, normally mannered. Normal. Perfectly normal. She found her darkened alcove, her suit of armor, and put on her cloak and gloves. She pulled her hood all the day down—black from head to toe. The knife was in her pocket.

If she kept to the darker parts of the corridors, stayed in the shadows, all in black the way she was, she'd never be noticed, she'd never be seen.

...Papa would be so happy with her...

She waited a long time outside the couple's meeting place, hiding in the dark. She waited a long time, but she was safe because it was all planned out. And it wasn't even her plan.

Even as Pasch led her up the stairs, only answering with that grin of his when she giddily cried out, "_Paschie-ee_! Where are we go-iiinnnggg...?!" Lucy DiSiracusa had no idea what he was up to. ...Well, no, she did have _some_ idea... She'd been suspicious when he led her away from the ball, just when the dancing had really gotten going... But he wouldn't try that _again_; he couldn't possibly... Since third year, she'd told him 'no'. For three years, she'd told him 'no', she didn't want to, she wasn't ready. They were sixth-years now. Surely he'd take her seriously.

He'd led her up to another floor, to the door of what she knew was an empty classroom, what _everyone_ knew was an empty classroom. "_Paschie-ee_," Lucy lilted again, flushed and giddy with excitement, "what are you up to...?" But Pasch only grinned at her, and led her inside.

Lucy was a pretty girl; no one could deny it. She had a sweet face, a quiet, mild, and always gentle air about her, and waves of golden blonde hair that tumbled down her shoulders. There was even something beautiful about the way her perfect, pink lips formed a little 'o' of surprise when Pasch led her inside the empty classroom.

The room was full of candles. On every flat surface, hanging from the ceiling, even a few floating in midair, there were candles, all burning, softly glowing, each flame with it little halo of light... It was _beautiful_...

"Oh, Paschie, did you do this?" Lucy asked, breathless with awe, but he didn't answer her. From beside her, he was moving aside her hair, leaning in close to her, kissing her neck.

"_Paschie..._" she whined in feeble protest, but he seemed only egged on by it, kissing her on the lips now to silence her, leading her farther into the middle of the room, he'd shut the door—...something really wasn't right about this.

"Paschie, _no_," Lucy tried again, trying to push Paschie away, but he wouldn't budge, though nor would she in her refusal to give in to this, even as he murmured a playful, "_C'mon_" and—oh, God, he was trying to touch her...

"_No, Paschasius_!" she yelled out, desperately, and he finally pulled away from her, but he was not forgiving.

"What is _with you_, Lucy?!" he yelled back at her, mean, ferocious, he spat the words out at her, disgusted. "You never want to do _anything._ What's your problem, anyway?"

The adrenaline that'd rushed coldly through her made her shiver, now. She could feel tears welling in the corners of her eyes, and she reached out to him. "I'm sorry, Paschasius... I just—"

But he recoiled from her, turning away from her, scoffing. "Don't _touch me._ ...Really, what's the _point_? It doesn't _go_ anywhere..."

Pasch was leaving the classroom. Lucy was crying. "_Paschie... Paschasius..._" But he didn't stop. He was gone, left her alone, crying and crying until she couldn't see through the tears.

She didn't even hear it when the door opened again, didn't even know that anyone else was in the room until a gloved hand was pressed to her pretty, pink mouth. But even as she panicked, she couldn't see. She felt something cold pressed to her throat, something sharp, pressing in, it was cutting her. She couldn't scream. She couldn't see her attacker, couldn't see anything. Couldn't see—


End file.
